


Loosen Up

by Fluffy_Stuff



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Because Patrick has a thing for Pete's touch, Eventual Smut, Hand & Finger Kink, M/M, Massage, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:41:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23249386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fluffy_Stuff/pseuds/Fluffy_Stuff
Summary: Patrick's really tense all the time. Joe knows a guy who can help.
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Comments: 47
Kudos: 53





	1. The Day Before You

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a snippet of a fic I started writing before Stained Glass. I couldn't (and still can't) decide where this one was going, so Stained Glass came first. I'm picking between two very different story arcs for this, and I want as many opinions as I can get before I continue. Please give this a read and cast a vote! Options are in the end notes.

Patrick’s back felt like it was on fire, waves of tension radiating up his spine with every step he took. He made it the last few feet, breathing heavily, muscles taught like bowstrings, and plopped the boxes on top of another stack. He drew in a deep breath and it came back out as a long groan. “God, is this ever going to get better?”

“Man, I’m telling you, you need to loosen up,” Joe lectured him. It was the third time today (probably the thirtieth that week, and it was only Thursday). 

Patrick assessed the stack of boxes he’d just set down, shifting them into piles with matching contents. When he was done, he fixed Joe with a glare. “Maybe I wouldn’t need to ‘loosen up’ if the guy who volunteered to help me had actually been doing that.”

Joe rolled his eyes. “Okay, fair point. But we’re not talking about just today. This has been going on for months. Have you considered just, like…chilling out a little?”

“And how exactly would you recommend I go about doing that?” Patrick asked, voice dripping with sarcasm and his eyes narrowed to slits. 

"A little relaxation might go a long way, man; that’s all I’m saying. And it might help if you take the stick out of your ass, too.”

Patrick’s fists clenched and he started counting backwards from one hundred in his head to calm down. “If you don’t stop talking, like, _very soon_ , you’re going to wish your biggest problem right now was the stick up my ass.”

“Okay, I’ll stop,” Joe said, holding up his hands in surrender. “But one last thing.”

Patrick started taking an inventory of the boxes. Had he really only packed three boxes for the kitchen, or was there still another one in the U-haul? And why is murder illegal, again? “Fine. One last thing, if it’s actually helpful,” he answered.

“Okay, so listen, dude, I have a friend of a friend who might be able to help you," Joe offered. 

Patrick walked over to the stack of boxes for the living room. When he counted one too many, he took the top one off the stack and set it on the floor. He let out a whimper as white-hot pain shot through his shoulder and down his arm. "Help me?” he asked, trying to surreptitiously rub the spot in his neck where his discomfort had originated. “You mean like mentally or something?"

"Physically and spiritually," Joe replied, eyes closed and head tilted back while he mimicked someone sitting in a meditative position. "And, hey, maybe even a little more, if you want,” Joe said with a wink. "I've met him and he's so your type."

Patrick raised an eyebrow as he knelt down next to the box, ripping it open to look through its contents. "Someone who's going to help me physically and spiritually, who is also potentially going to sleep with me. Are you sending me to some kind of prostitute or a sex therapist or something?" Patrick really thought, just for a second that Joe was going to say yes. And then he would've had a heart attack right there, next to the missing dish towels he’d just found. 

Joe rolled his eyes. "Nooo. And for the record, they're called _escorts_. It's much classier to say it that way."

Patrick looked at Joe squarely, hands on his hips. "If that's your golden example of being classy, I have some questions for your parents."

Joe scowled. "Some thanks I get for offering to help you." He pulled out his phone and started tapping away, in search of something. "Anyway," he continued, "if you were interested, this guy's a massage therapist. Aht—" he said, cutting Patrick off as he opened his mouth to say something snide. "He's really good at what he does. He runs his own place, has a few celeb clients who swear by him—it can't hurt to give him a try, right?" Joe said, eyes pleading.

Patrick watched him curiously. Since when did he seem like the kind of guy who needed a massage, or (more importantly) would actually go get one if he did? He moved to rise from the floor and his back wrenched, leaving him gasping and motionless. He braced his hands on the nearby stack of boxes for support as he hoisted himself up. 

When he straightened up, he found Joe was watching him with his arms crossed. "Like I said, he's quite a miracle worker, so if you don't want to be walking around like a grandpa by next week, you should give him a call."

He saw now that Joe wasn’t going to back down until Patrick caved in. "Fine," Patrick huffed out. "But only if you order food to make up for the colossal lack of help you were with those boxes."

Joe just nodded as he tapped away on his phone. Patrick heard his own phone ding with a notification and groaned internally. Joe turned away with a triumphant smile as he headed into the kitchen to call for pizza. 

Patrick opened his phone to see a new message from Joe with a name, a phone number, and a string of emojis that made Patrick wish he had laser vision so he could to burn Joe alive through the wall. But then again, it didn't look good to make a home insurance claim two days into home ownership.


	2. Two Strangers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I thought Joe was sending me to a prostitute at first, or I would’ve called sooner."
> 
> Great. Super. Best possible thing he could've come up with. The people seated closest to him were openly staring at him now, and he wished he had a superpower that would let him evaporate. He braced for the outrage or the sound of the line disconnecting. At least he’d have an interesting story to tell Joe about how he’d accused one of his distant friends of being a sex worker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the second chapter! This one’s much longer than the first. I’m aiming for this story to have one somewhat serious subplot because it popped into my head as I was writing. Keeping in mind how precarious everything is in the world right now, including our mental health, I’ll do my best to balance the dramatic bits with an overall humorous tone. You’ll see what I mean toward the end of this chapter.
> 
> Hang in there, everybody!

Patrick’s morning sucked. It started with a miserable walk through the rain to his normal L stop, his laptop bag hanging off his shoulder like a ball and chain. Then, on his way from the L to his office building, he’d almost been hit by a cab running a red light. By the time he’d gotten to work, his neck and shoulders ached unbearably and Patrick had just wanted to turn around and go home. His torture was far from over, though. Next came three hours of holding his desk phone between his ear and his shoulder because he wasn’t important enough to qualify for a headset, even though he knew damn well the fancy law firm he worked for could afford to buy him a BMW without blinking.

Now, as he sat in a corner café for lunch, his neck and shoulders felt like mismatched puzzle pieces that had been smashed together by a cranky toddler. He frowned down at his sandwich. It was his favorite and his stomach was growling, but he was so uncomfortable that it wasn’t worth lifting his arm to eat it. Patrick wanted to bawl. He pounded his fist on the table and then gasped as his tense muscles vibrated with pain. He didn’t know how he was going to feed himself, much less get through the rest of his day, and he only had fifteen minutes to get back to work.

Not to mention that when he got home, he still had hours of unpacking to do, which meant more lifting and bending, and, therefore, a nonstop stream of pain for the rest of the day. His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a wet sensation moving slowly down his cheek. Oh my god. Was he actually _crying_? Over _a sandwich_?

“Mommy, is that guy okay?” he heard a little girl at the next table whisper.

Oh, great—now he was scaring small children. That was Patrick’s last straw. He sighed impatiently and opened his text conversation with Joe. The latest message was a half-hearted scolding after Patrick admitted to not having called this masseuse guy yet. What was his name again? He scrolled up a few messages.

Pete. That didn’t sound like the name of a guy who rubbed down movie stars. He’d been expecting a Paolo or a Sebastian or something else that sounded glamorous and fake. Maybe he went by a pseudonym in the Hollywood world, and Patrick only got to know his real name because of their mutual friends. He wished he had this guy’s last name so he could do some internet stalking first. Then again, that was probably the reason Joe had left it out.

Patrick stared at the number in Joe’s text, like he expected it to morph into an alien, jump out of his phone, and run screeching through the cafe if he watched it long enough. This was getting ridiculous. Would it really hurt to call? Worst case scenario, the guy had an opening for him, he went, he didn’t like it, and then he went on his merry way and never saw the dude again. At least it would get Joe off his back. He sighed heavily, his thumb hovering over the call button for a fraction of a second before making contact.

Since he could barely lift his arm, he put the phone on speaker and set it on the table in front of him. He’d already scared a small child, so why not traumatize the rest of the customers? It wasn’t until he heard the dial tone that he realized that this was a fucking _phone call_ and it was happening _right now_. At any second, someone was going to pick up at the other end and he’d have to find something intelligible to say to them. Was “Hi, my friend thought you could help me relax by giving me a massage and possibly fucking me. Can you fit me in on Tuesday?” an appropriate conversation starter? He’d just gotten to the third ring and was about to hang up in a panic when the ringing stopped.

"Hey, this is Pete," said a chipper voice at the other end of the phone. Was he crazy or did this guy literally _sound_ hot? Joe had said this Pete guy was Patrick’s type, but hadn’t said anything about his actual looks. If he really was hot (and actually Patrick’s type) how the hell was Patrick going to get through a massage with him without popping a boner or doing something else humiliating? This was all going to go so wrong, so horribly wrong. "Hello?"

Oh, right. Patrick was supposed to say something _back_. "Oh, hi...um, I got your number from a friend of mine? He said you’re a masseuse?”

“Yeah, that’s me,” Pete chirped back. “What can I do for you?”

Patrick had no choice but to wing this. He just hoped that whatever he said wouldn’t be so embarrassing that he couldn’t meet his own gaze in the mirror later. “Um, like my back and neck and—well, actually my entire body, but those are the worst parts. They’ve been in a lot of pain lately for no reason. Then, yesterday, I had to carry a ton of boxes and stuff to move into my new house, and now it feels like Satan is living in my spine, shooting fire down the nearest limb he can find every time I piss him off. And I’m sitting here in a café, staring at my ridiculously overpriced sandwich and I just realized that I’m going to starve because I can’t even pick it up to eat it.”

The people at the tables nearby were starting to cast him uneasy glances. There was silence on the other end of the phone. _Jesus_ , what the hell was wrong with him? “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, like…go all ‘life story’ on you…I just—um…Joe, my friend I told you about, said he met you? He said you were my—” No, _do not tell him he’s your type_. “Um, he thought you might be able to help me, so I don’t end up walking like a grandpa soon or something. His words, not mine." Patrick was weighing the pros and cons of throwing his phone into the street just so the call would end.

"Oh, you’re Joe’s friend!” Pete said, perking up. “Finally. I’ve been waiting all morning, wondering when you’d call me.” Well, that was an unexpected turn of events. Patrick looked over his shoulder, like he thought he'd find a stranger lurking in the shadows staring at him. "Shit," came the reply through the phone. "I didn't mean to sound creepy or anything. It's just that Andy, my best friend, told me his friend Joe referred someone who needed to come in ASAP. I know it sounds bad, but I’ve kind of been dodging all of my regular clients’ calls so I could schedule you first…"

Why would he put Patrick ahead of his regulars, his celebrities? He’d probably cost this guy good business by not calling earlier. The uncomfortable weight of guilt settled on his shoulders as he scrambled for an excuse. He had to say something. Anything. "I thought Joe was sending me to a prostitute at first, or I would’ve called sooner."

Great. Super. Best possible thing he could've come up with. The people seated closest to him were openly staring at him now, and he wished he had a superpower that would let him evaporate. He braced for the outrage or the sound of the line disconnecting. At least he’d have an interesting story to tell Joe about how he’d accused one of his distant friends of being a sex worker.

To his surprise, Pete laughed— _actually laughed_. "Man, I can't tell you how many people have asked if it's a happy endings message place—which it isn't, by the way, so if that's what you're hoping for, tell me now—but seriously, I've never had someone assume I’m a prostitute before." He cut off for a moment. "Well, I mean there was one time," he mumbled. "But it wasn't because of my job." Patrick was glad Pete couldn't see him, because he was sure his expression hadn’t been schooled into anything dignified at any point since this call had started. “That’s not what you’re looking for, right?”

"Um, no," Patrick said sheepishly. "I'm—I’m not into stuff like that." Fuck, that made it sound like he was homophobic or something. "I don’t mean gay stuff,” he blurted. “I’m gay. I just meant the sex part. Not that I don’t like sex. Sex is good—great, sometimes. I just meant I don’t want to have sex with you.” Shit. Could this be going any worse? “I don’t mean—not that I wouldn’t want to…do that…with you. Like outside of massages. I don't know you, but you must be decently attractive, or people wouldn't be asking you to—" Patrick sighed in frustration. His face felt hot from embarrassment. He didn’t dare look at the people around him, because he was pretty sure he’d die on the spot if he had to meet any of their stares. "I'm gonna stop talking now," he groaned. It was the best decision he'd made in ten minutes.

To his astonishment, Pete just laughed harder. "Damn, I was hoping you’d keep going—it was just getting good.” Pete sighed. “But, if you insist, we’ll get into the business stuff. Never had a massage before, I'm guessing?"

“What was your first clue?” Patrick quipped. This guy was taking his awkwardness incredibly well. He was either a total saint or a really good actor.

“Hmm, I’m torn between how distressed you seem just talking to me and the fact that we still haven’t discussed my actual services yet.” There was an awkward pause. Was Patrick supposed to respond to that? “It’s okay to be a massage virgin, you know,” Pete reassured him, his voice softer now. “A lot of people aren’t into the idea of a stranger touching them. Even the ones who are don’t necessarily have the inclination or the time or the money to keep up regular appointments.”

“Good to know,” Patrick said slowly. “And what kind of um…services do you offer?”

“Let’s see…all the basics, really—Swedish massages, deep tissue massages, trigger point massages, and so on. And for the big finale, I can do hand jobs, oral, penetrative sex—anal, in this case— and some kinky st—"

“W-what!?” Patrick’s voice reached a pitch he would’ve never thought possible. He felt the eyes of the other patrons all settling on him. The staff behind the counter were starting to take notice, the kitchen sounds quieting down, presumably so management could assess the scene from afar. No, he couldn’t be the guy who was forcibly removed from a cafe for an inappropriate phone call. How humiliating!

“I’m joking!” Pete answered hurriedly. “God, I thought you’d have a better sense of humor than that.”

“It’s not that. I’m on speakerphone in the middle of a restaurant,” Patrick groaned. “I’m going to get kicked out because of you.” Maybe if he closed his eyes, he could pretend he wasn’t here and then nobody would notice him. Like peekaboo.

“Oh, _shit_. I’m sorry; I didn’t realize. You should probably just grab your sandwich and run out before they can say anything to you.”

“Good thinking.” Patrick wrapped his sandwich in a napkin and stood abruptly, walking toward the door with his head down, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes. He hadn’t even pushed his chair in before he left.

Once he was safely outside, he started a slow walk back to the office. He had about nine minutes left, not that anyone really counted besides him.

“Are you safely away from listening ears yet?” came a voice from the pocket of his pants.

In his rush to leave, Patrick had forgotten he was still on the phone with the guy who’d started this mess. He fished the phone out of his pocket hastily. “Well, my pride was fatally wounded, but I escaped with my sandwich and half-dead body reasonably intact. You know, I used to be a regular there,” he mused, “and now I can never go back.”

“Oh, you’ll be fine. Just give it a week,” Pete said, chuckling. “Half the crew will be new by then with the turnover rates at places like that.”

“I hope you’re right,” Patrick said. He wasn’t really convinced, but it wasn’t worth arguing. “Um, back to your services—the legal ones, not the ones you give on the street corner.”

“I’ll have you know that _all_ of my services are in very high demand. And the kinds of services you term illegal are actually free and only available at my discretion, thereby making them legal.”

“You were going to charge me for something you normally do for free? How rude,” Patrick joked. Pete’s laugh joined his own, and he thought for a flicker of a second that it was a nice sound, their shared laughter.

“Okay, how about we just stick with the basics for now? That’s an hour, focusing on problem areas, since it sounds like that’s really what you need right now. Back, neck, and shoulders, you said?”

“Um, yeah.” He could just start to see his work building a city block away. Unless a massive hole swallowed up all of Michigan Ave, he wouldn’t be late getting back. He switched his attention back to the call. He felt like he was forgetting something… “Hey, um, is it weird to ask what your prices are first?”

“Nah, that’s a concern everyone has,” Pete assured him. “Don’t tell anyone, but I tend to have different price brackets for different…professions.”

“Does that mean I get a discount for being a normal person and not a movie star?”

“Basically, yeah,” Pete said. “I make slight changes to the services for high-profile clients to justify the price difference, like throwing in some add-ons that don’t really cost me anything. For the services you’re looking for, I normally charge about $125.”

Patrick let out a low whistle. “You’re expensive. I can see why people can’t afford to do this regularly.”

Pete’s chuckle came through the phone again, and Patrick found he was oddly comforted by it. “Hey, it’s expensive to own a business in the city, and even more expensive when you don’t have any business partners to split the rent with. I’m lucky I’ve built up a good enough reputation that my upper echelon clients don’t even blink at what I charge them. But for you, I’ll give the friends and family discount,” Pete offered. “Does $90 sound more reasonable?”

Patrick didn’t have to think twice, thanks to the generous salary he makes as a corporate law paralegal. It almost made being treated like a peasant by his overeducated coworkers worth it. “Deal. When can you fit me in?”

“Well, I’m booked today, but does tomorrow night work? I have a seven available. If not, I can do Wednesday at six or maybe move some people around on Friday.”

“Oh, don’t move anyone just for me. Tomorrow at seven works just fine.”

"Sure thing.” Pete’s tone switches to one a little less confident. “Um, kind of weird to ask at this point, but I don’t know your name...”

"My name? Um, I'm Patrick," he said, sounding as stupid as he felt. They’d had an entire conversation, including a sob story about a sandwich and a display of public humiliation without Patrick telling the guy once who he was.

"And do you have a last name, Patrick? So I can put you in my planner? I mean, I need to have some idea of who's walking into my business. That way if I go missing, the police will have somewhere to start."

Patrick laughed. "Right, right. My last name is Stump. So, Patrick Stump." Like the guy didn't know how first and last names work.

"Great," Pete said, and Patrick could hear the smile in his voice. Had Patrick done that, or was Pete normally this cheerful? “I’ll send you some forms to fill out and sign. That way, we don’t have to waste time with paperwork when you get here.”

“Yeah, that sounds good,” Patrick said lamely. Patrick recited his email for Pete and was just about to say goodbye when Pete interrupted him.

“Patrick?”

“What?”

“Are you going to starve _and_ be late for work?”

Patrick looked around himself and realized that he’d stopped walking right after he’d crossed Michigan Ave. His work was still two buildings and a twelve-floor elevator ride away. His heart sped up as he checked his watch. He had two minutes. “ _Fuck!_ Thanks, Pete. Bye!”

He barely heard Pete say goodbye before he hung up on him. Patrick sprinted the rest of the way to the building and tore through the lobby toward to the first open elevator he saw. He almost lost an arm, but he made it on.

The elevator car was pretty packed, so he tucked himself into the corner near the front, where he tapped his foot impatiently. The doors dinged open at the fourth floor. A couple of people shuffled around so others could get out. Patrick sensed rather than felt a body crowding unnecessarily close to him.

He watched the numbers on the screen above the door climbing with each floor they passed. _Five more to go_ , he thought to himself. _Just five more_. And was that…someone’s breath on his neck? They stopped at floor ten, where a few more people left. Patrick seriously thought about jumping off and taking the stairs, but then he remembered that he had asthma and running down the street, through a lobby, _and then_ up two flights of stairs was really pushing his limit.

The person behind him still hadn’t moved back, despite how much space had been vacated. The doors in front of Patrick closed and he shifted a little closer to the center of the car. He should be safer here. He only had to survive a few more seconds. His foot tapped the floor even more impatiently now, his tension setting a rhythm almost too fast for his body to keep up with. _Come on, come on_ , he thought, willing the car to rise faster.

Something nudged against Patrick’s leg in a very deliberate manner. Patrick whipped his head around to tell whoever he saw to fuck off and was met with a wall of tailored fabric and expensive-smelling aftershave. He looked up, very far up, past strong, chiseled features, into a pair of green eyes that he’d probably find gorgeous if they didn’t belong to someone who’d been borderline harassing him for the past couple of minutes. Had it even been that long? It felt like an eon, though, and Patrick was just opening his mouth to say something rude when the guy smirked down at him. “Sorry for crowding you. Just a little anxious to get back to work.”

Patrick narrowed his eyes. He had pretty good instincts, and they were telling him not to trust this guy. “I think a lot of people are,” he said, gesturing at the remaining few people trapped in the elevator with them. “But there’s plenty of room to respect everyone’s personal space.”

The guy nodded and backed up just far enough that there was no chance of them accidentally touching. “Point taken, but I have to admit, when I see a guy I like, it’s hard for me to keep my distance. I don’t want to let them get away.” 

Patrick huffed out a sarcastic laugh. “Well unwelcome physical contact is hardly the way to get on my good side, or anyone’s, for that matter. Maybe it’s time to reevaluate your strategy.”

“Well, I got your attention, right?”

Patrick backed up a step; the elevator doors blessedly opened behind him, as if on cue. Patrick almost fell backwards onto the polished tile floor. But all that mattered now was that he was free. There would soon be a secured door between him and this creep.

When he saw said creep step out of the elevator after him, walk past a stunned Patrick, and swipe his keycard at said secured door, Patrick’s heart plummeted. _He worked with this guy?_ First the sandwich crisis, then the pornographic phone call with Pete, and now this? His life was turning into a sick cosmic joke in the course of an hour.

The guy stood there holding the door open, waiting for Patrick to walk through. Patrick shuffled his lead feet through the door, not taking his eyes off the stranger, in case he tried to pull something else. “You work here?” he managed to ask through gritted teeth.

“Just started last week. Guess I’ll have more chances to make a good impression. Name’s Tom, by the way.” He pointed to his name, which was freshly etched into the glass wall next to the door they’d just passed through. _Right at the bottom, where he belongs_ , Patrick thought sarcastically.

Patrick just stared at him. “See you later, cutie.” Tom gave him a wink and walked off to go bother someone else, Patrick assumed.

Patrick wandered back to his desk, sandwich still in his hand, head spinning as he tried to rationalize his way through this development. Realistically, everyone who worked here was background checked. The guy was a lawyer, for God’s sake, so he probably wasn’t dangerous—just weird. The lawyers tended to avoid peons like Patrick, so Tom would find out he was a nobody and then leave him alone.

When he sat down at his desk, he realized he still had his sandwich in his hand. With his luck right now, it would probably give him food poisoning. He only winced a little when he chucked it into the trash.

By the end of the day, Patrick was tenser than ever. He wanted to cry when he remembered all of the boxes he had waiting for him to unpack when he got home. He pulled out his phone and went to his recent calls, looking for Joe’s number. When he saw Pete’s at the top of his call log, he smiled. It was amazing how you could meet two vastly different people in such a small space of time: one whose contagious laughter made his heart beat fast, and another who made him want to run for the hills. He scrolled down and clicked Joe’s number. “Hey, asshole, you have boxes to unpack,” he said as soon as Joe answered. “Be at my place in thirty.”

***

They talked through Patrick’s harrowing encounter with Creepy Tom, as Patrick was referring to him now. Joe had given him a sympathetic smile and gone out for a half gallon of Patrick’s favorite ice cream. “You deserve a horribly indulgent and unhealthy dinner after that,” he’d said in explanation. Patrick was really lucky to have a friend like Joe.

They’d already unpacked all of the family room stuff and Patrick’s music collection. The place was starting to feel like home now.

"So, on a lighter note, did you call Pete yet?" Joe yelled from the kitchen. He was stuck unpacking the rest of Patrick’s kitchenware after Patrick had declared himself in too much pain to continue.

"Yes," Patrick said flatly. He didn’t want to give too much away. He was sitting on the couch with a heating pad on his back, pillows supporting him on both sides while he played games on his cell phone.

"And?" Joe poked his head through the kitchen doorway, a hopeful look on his face.

"That, too, was a mortifying, though decidedly not creepy, experience," Patrick confessed, "which will come to an epic conclusion tomorrow at 7 p.m. Happy?" he said, looking up from his game to stare at Joe.

Joe shot back a knowing smile. "Very."

Patrick rolled his eyes, but, in truth, he took it as a good sign that Pete hadn’t blabbed to everyone about the sandwich shop fiasco the second they’d hung up. Throughout their long conversation, Patrick had done nothing but say really awkward things and insult him, and Pete had taken it all in stride. Maybe, even if massages turned out not to be Patrick’s thing, there might be something else worth keeping Pete around for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what does everyone think of the direction I’m taking? Leave some comments to let me know! Stay safe and healthy, everyone!


	3. First Impressions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I thought you said this wasn’t a sex dungeon, and now you want me to take my clothes off?” he said nervously. He’d seen plenty of movies—this should’ve connected in his brain before now that in order for Pete to rub his bare back, he’d have to be at least partially unclothed.
> 
> Pete turned around, hands on his hips, smirking. “Well, I’m not sure if you’ve heard this, but there are plenty of respectable and _legal_ professions that ask their customers, patrons, or whatever to remove some or all of their clothing. Like a surgeon, for example. You wouldn’t want to be cut open wearing your street clothes, would you?”
> 
> “Fair point,” Patrick conceded with a huff. But this was like, an extenuating circumstance—Patrick’s heartrate was hurtling toward max speed as his mind supplied horror visions of what would this gorgeous man would think when he was forced to lay eyes—and _hands_ —on Patrick’s naked, pale, chubby body. What if he had a heart attack and died of embarrassment on the fucking massage table?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally decided how long this is going to be and have it all plotted out! For once, I'm mostly writing in order, which kind of scares me. Hope everyone is still enjoying. :)
> 
> I wasn't as thorough with my editing of this chapter. There's a lot more dialogue than normal and there might be errors, but, very uncharacteristically, I'm not too worried about them to refrain from posting. Bon appetit!

Patrick stared at the clock. It was 7:02 a.m., which meant he had twelve hours to go until the (presumed) relief of his massage session with the (possibly hot) guy who had a really fucking great sense of humor. Or, it could end up being, as all other events leading up to it that week had been, a complete and total clusterfuck. 

It would’ve been the cherry on top for him to crumple into a pile of dust as he’d climbed out of bed, but alas, there’d been no such luck. Ripples of agony pulsed out from his spine and down his arms every time he moved. If eating breakfast had been unpleasant, then brushing his teeth was downright brutal. The clock antagonized him now, the slow tick of its hands the only barrier between Patrick and the one item on his agenda today. He had this fleeting idea that he could randomly show up at Pete’s massage parlor (just to get it over with, you know—not because he was eager to meet the guy). That plan was fortunately derailed when he realized he hadn’t gotten the address from Pete yet. Apparently, he’d been serious about his business being secretive.

So Patrick did the only other thing he could do: he made a cup of tea, put on some of his favorite records, and sulked in bed while those damn moving boxes rotted. He wasn’t going to lift a finger today if he could help it.

He smiled— _seriously smiled_ —when he got the email from Pete that afternoon. He felt like such a fool already and he’d never even seen the guy’s face. He’d always thought those teens and college kids who got catfished were naïve and, frankly, pretty stupid for pouring their hearts out to some stranger they’d met online. Yet, here he was with his pathetic heart going pitter-patter like a thirteen year old over a guy he’d never even seen a picture of. But that would all be rectified tonight, Patrick reminded himself. He’d get to see Pete in just a few miserably long hours. 

He scrolled through the email from Pete, downloading a ridiculous amount of forms, which had to do with privacy practices and waiving of legal rights. Pete was a smart guy, if a teensy bit paranoid.

At the bottom of Pete’s email was a link with the note, “in case you’re still confused” followed by a winky face emoji. Normally, Patrick was smart enough not to click links, but he figured Pete wouldn’t risk losing a client and pissing off a couple of friends just to send him a computer virus. Patrick clicked through.

An article titled “Looking for a Happy Ending? Not in This Massage Parlor” splashed across his computer screen. It was dedicated to differentiating normal massage therapists from their more erotic counterparts. Patrick read the whole article, chuckling as he imagined Pete scouring the internet to find something like this to send him. When Patrick sent the forms back, his reply included “Methinks the lady doth protest too much….Attached a new form you might want to consider for your ‘special services’” and a template for a rather suggestive NDA. 

Patrick ordered a pizza for dinner, hoping some artery-clogging cheesy goodness would distract him from his impending meeting with the Hot Masseuse, as he was calling him now. He should really stop giving people weird nicknames…

About an hour before his appointment (and approximately twenty-two minutes into Patrick’s staring contest with his phone), Pete emailed him back with an address and a gif of the famous fake orgasm scene from _When Harry Met Sally_. He’d captioned it with “Your next restaurant visit?” 

Patrick cackled. He thought of Pete, a faceless (probably gorgeous) guy who really seemed to be more Patrick’s type every second, using his sparse few minutes in between rubbing down starlets to search for the perfect suggestive gif to tease Patrick with. And…was this considered sexting? Or like, the email equivalent of sexting? Because if it was, it totally didn’t turn Patrick on. Nope, not even a bit. And it definitely didn’t induce him to swap out his sweats for a pair of tight jeans and brush his teeth before hobbling his way outside.

As Patrick locked his door behind him, his phone buzzed with a text from Joe. All it took was one glance at the suggestive emojis for Patrick to slide his phone back into his pocket without answering. He was hopeful for the first time that week that relief was near, and nothing—not even Joe’s weird meddling in his sex life—was going to kill his vibe tonight.

***

This was a mistake. An utter, utter mistake. 

Just as the last traces of the sun’s rays lost their battle to the murky, light-polluted ink of Chicago’s night sky, Patrick stood on a cracked sidewalk, facing a plain wood door with no glass or windows around it. The building was nondescript and completely devoid of any signs or advertisements. Was this the right place? He squinted at the address Pete had sent him and frowned when he saw it matched the numbers above the door.

So this was the address Pete had sent him to. But was it a massage parlor or a murderer’s lair? Had he been such a weirdo that this Pete guy had sent him somewhere to get killed? He cast a quick look around him, making sure there weren’t any creeps lurking around before sliding out his phone. He was pulling up Pete’s contact in his phone to give him a call and maybe a piece of his mind as well when the door in front of him clicked open.

"Hi. Patrick?"

Patrick stared. The man in front of him wasn't anything like what he'd pictured. When Andy said he was a celebrity masseuse, he'd pictured either some sort of yoga master in bare feet and long robes or a wannabe starlet with more fake body parts than a barbie doll. What he got was a guy with golden ink-splattered skin, warm amber eyes, and a blinding smile. He was about Patrick’s height, which was pretty rare, and he was wearing shoes, and—actually…pretty normal clothes. If he’d had any hope at all that he wasn’t going to want to bone his massage therapist, it had just been pummeled into the earth by a fucking meteor, which then vaporized in an explosion of fire.

"You coming in or what?"

Patrick recovered, nodding silently as he stepped off the sidewalk and into what he really had started to hope was Pete’s sex den.

Pete closed the door behind him and crossed his arms, a mirthful smirk on his face. His fucking gorgeous face. "I saw you standing outside like you were waiting for a bus to hit you so you didn't have to come in," Pete said judgmentally. Patrick felt his cheeks heating up. He wasn’t sure if it was from embarrassment or the pressure of being the center of this man’s attention. “I know you probably still have some doubts,” Pete continued, “but I promise this won't be a traumatizing experience."

"You should put that on the door," Patrick told him.

"Snarky,” Pete quipped, nodding his approval. Patrick could see the coquettish smile beneath the act, and he had to look away before it drove him insane.

Pete might be hot—like _ridiculously, stupidly_ hot—and Patrick was going to let the whole you-sent-me-to-the-middle-of-nowhere debacle go because this was probably his one chance in his entire life to have someone this hot touch him, but he was absolutely not going to let Pete walk off without a talking-to. Besides, scolding was Patrick’s specialty. "Why the hell doesn't your business have any signs outside? I thought you sent me here to get murdered." 

"I work by referral only," Pete said casually. "And I have some high-profile clients. The location is need-to-know, so everyone can have an experience that's actually relaxing. No paparazzi, no walk-ins, no phone calls—just peace."

"Is this place soundproof, too? You make it sound like an underground bunker." He looked around and saw that the entire office (if you could call an entryway and a hallway with a few doors an office) was devoid of anyone but them. “Like, am I going to get Dextered here? Is there a table in the back covered in plastic sheeting with my name on it?”

"Of course not.” Pete rolled his eyes. “These rooms aren’t nearly isolated enough for torture. That’s what the basement is for, along with my other various business ventures, according to a certain Patrick Stump. Which reminds me—thanks for the NDA suggestion. I already printed a thousand copies and forged one for you.”

“Is that so? Well, thanks for saving me the time.” Patrick couldn’t stop the chuckle of laughter that pushed its way past his lips. They were doing about as well in person as they had on the phone, keeping perfectly in stride with each other throughout this awkward dance. Patrick was relieved. 

Pete watched him curiously, biting his lip. "You know, you're nothing like how Andy described you."

"And how exactly did Andy describe me? A hermit? A workaholic?" Leave it to Joe’s asshole friend Andy to give Pete a bad impression about Patrick.

"Nah, he just said you weren't much of a talker. I'd say quite the opposite."

Patrick chuckled in amusement. "That's because I've only seen him at parties, where I usually hide in the corner and play Candy Crush until Joe lets me drag him out."

"Are you kidding? What fun is a party if you're avoiding everyone?" Pete asked incredulously. "Isn't the point to drink and dance and meet people?"

"Three things I avoid like the plague," Patrick said firmly. “I’m awful at meeting new people. I just humiliate myself the whole time—kind of like our phone call yesterday.”

Pete shook his head, biting back laughter. "Your friend Joe is right. You could use my help.” Pete’s eyes roved over Patrick’s body slowly, winking once their eyes connected. “In more ways than one.”

Patrick spluttered, not sure if he should feel offended or turned on. Pete turned and waved for Patrick to follow him. "Come on, we've got a lot of work to do. We need to get started."

Patrick trailed after Pete down the short hallway and turned through a doorway that faced the back of the building. "This place is smaller than I thought it would be. I mean, I was expecting like, I don't know...a full-on office with like a reception desk and like...other people."

Pete blinked at him. "I'm just one person. How many rooms can I be in at once?" 

"Of course, yeah. Dumb of me to think that," Patrick muttered. He stood awkwardly in the doorway, clueless about what he was supposed to do next. He should’ve googled this instead of staring at his family room wall while he listened to Bowie for the entire hour of three o’clock.

"Hey, stop talking about yourself that way," Pete said. His tone wasn't admonishing or annoyed, but calm and sincere. "You're here for an hour of relaxation, not self-deprecation. Walking in here is a pass to leave your emotional baggage at the door."

Patrick supposed he was right, so he fell silent, waiting for Pete to guide the rest of their time. Pete gestured to a chair in the corner of the room. “You can leave your clothes over there,” he said evenly, his back to Patrick as he fiddled with his supplies.

Wait… “I thought you said this wasn’t a sex dungeon, and now you want me to take my clothes off?” he said nervously. He’d seen plenty of movies—this should’ve connected in his brain before now that in order for Pete to rub his bare back, he’d have to be at least partially unclothed.

Pete turned around, hands on his hips, smirking. “Well, I’m not sure if you’ve heard this, but there are plenty of respectable and _legal_ professions that ask their customers, patrons, or whatever to remove some or all of their clothing. Like a surgeon, for example. You wouldn’t want to be cut open wearing your street clothes, would you?”

“Fair point,” Patrick conceded with a huff. But this was like, an extenuating circumstance—Patrick’s heartrate was hurtling toward max speed as his mind supplied horror visions of what would this gorgeous man would think when he was forced to lay eyes—and _hands_ —on Patrick’s naked, pale, chubby body. What if he had a heart attack and died of embarrassment on the fucking massage table? 

“Great, so…clothes over there. I’ll leave while you change. There are towels over there so you can put some under you before you lay down,” Pete said, pointing toward a stack of fluffy white towels that looked like clouds, while remaining completely oblivious to Patrick’s ensuing panic attack. “And I guess you can put one over yourself, if you must.”

Patrick raised an eyebrow. Was Pete…flirting with him? It was hard to tell if he was flirting because he liked Patrick, or if this was just part of his sexy masseuse persona. “Like…I’m supposed to take off _everything_?” Patrick asked in a voice that he will swear did not resemble a squeak, his face hot and undoubtedly pink. 

“Most people do take off everything, but some are more comfortable with something still on,” he said with a shrug. “We’re working on your back, though, so if you don’t want oil on your pants at all, I’d take them off. If you’re too much of a prude, I’ll do my best to stay above them.”

Fuck, Patrick was not ready to be fucking _naked_ in front of this guy he’d just met. Whatever flirtatious air there was right now would disappear the second Pete came back in the room. He searched for some emotion or expression to plaster on his face to cover the sheer terror bubbling up inside his chest. Patrick stared back at Pete, who was standing in the doorway now, hand on the doorknob. He settled on humor, because it was the only approach that would withstand his awkwardness right now. “I generally try to keep most of my clothes on the first time I meet a guy, so I’d hate to break that record now. Helps me figure out who’s just in it for a quick fuck and who actually likes me.”

“We’ll see how long you’re singing that tune,” Pete said, looking Patrick pointedly up and down once more. The door clicked behind him when he left.

***

“So…you didn’t get fired from your job, did you?”

What a conversation starter. Especially while Patrick was lying mostly naked (save for his boxers, which he’d been adamant about keeping on) on a table, where despite the mood lighting, Patrick felt quite on display. They’d had a brief discussion when Pete came back in about Patrick’s problem areas and Pete had gotten right to work, pouring oil onto his hands and slowly working his fingers into the muscles of Patrick’s neck.

“God, no,” Patrick groaned.

“Good. And you didn’t get like a citation or anything for the phone call, right?”

“Well, they don’t know where to find me to give me one, so I think I’ll keep up the chase for like, _ever_.” He let out a discontented sigh at the thought of never eating his favorite sandwich from his favorite lunch restaurant again. “Okay, maybe just not for another few weeks. And then I’ll go in with Groucho Marx glasses,” he grumbled. 

“I’ll go in and get food for you.” Patrick could hear the smirk in Pete’s voice. 

“Why do I have the feeling that there’s something devious on your mind?”

Pete’s hands moved to an area of Patrick’s shoulder that had been really sensitive lately. And _oooh_ , god, there was something magical about the way this man’s fingers put Patrick’s body at ease as they worked over his tender muscles. He bit his lip to stifle a cry. If anyone had told him that massages felt like sex, he wouldn’t have believed them, but now he saw why people did this. Or maybe it was just Pete’s technique. Was that why he charged so much? Because he was giving out completely non-sexual orgasms like he was the fucking ice cream man?

“Patrick,” Pete teased. “Cat got your tongue?”

“Sorry, what?” he gasped breathlessly.

“Enjoying yourself?” Pete guessed.

“Um…yeah.” A pause. The silence grew awkward, and if Patrick didn’t distract himself by talking, he’d end up full-on moaning so loud Pete’s neighbors would lodge a complaint. “I’m sorry if it’s creepy to say, but…there is goddamn orgasmic-level pleasure flowing from your fingertips. You should charge twice what you do.”

Pete’s laugh came from somewhere above Patrick’s left ear and his exhaled breath brushed over Patrick’s skin, making him shiver. “Hmm, maybe I’ll put that on the door, too. Or I can have you write my whole marketing brochure, hand it out at that sandwich shop and say our call was part of the ad campaign.”

Patrick knew Pete couldn’t see him roll his eyes, so he just said “it’s a deal.” Patrick fell silent for a few moments, relishing the feel of Pete’s warm fingertips pressing soothingly into his skin. His pain melted away slowly but steadily with each stroke of strong, sure hands. “Are all massages like this, or is it just like something special that you do?” he murmured.

“You know, I’m not really sure,” Pete said, thoughtfully. He started working his way down Patrick’s back now, eliciting a soft moan from the redhead. Patrick noticed that Pete wasn’t even remarking on Patrick’s endless embarrassing noises anymore. Maybe this was how everyone reacted to a massage? “I mean it’s not like I can massage myself,” Pete continued, “so I have no idea what my technique feels like to my clients. I use the basic stuff I learned in school, but kind of like writing or baking or anything creative, I just kind of put my own spin on it.”

“Interesting, so how do you know if you’re good or—” Patrick’s words were cut off by the insistent pleasure of Pete’s hands on him, building up the pleasure and pushing it out through his mouth in a long, low groan. He felt his cock start to awaken, a byproduct of his attraction to Pete and the ludicrous amount of endorphins and other chemicals floating freely in his brain. 

“You know how I always tell? Because people don’t moan like this if it’s not good,” Pete whispered against Patrick’s ear. “Don’t worry—you’re not the first client to turn into a horny mess under my hands.”

“I’m not a horny mess,” Patrick protested. It sounded feeble even to his own ears. Barely twenty minutes in, he was half-hard and would’ve been on his knees in front of Pete if not for the constant pressure of Pete’s hands pushing his body further into the table.

“Right. So…um, if I had happy ending services you’d totally need me to do _way more_ than just put a little pressure…”Pete’s fingers wandered up his back and toward his neck. Shit, that was where Patrick’s _spot_ was, the one that pushed him right to the edge. Pete couldn’t possibly know exactly where it was, though. 

“Here?” And then Pete pressed his fingers in _right there_ and fucking raked them down Patrick’s neck. Patrick emitted the loudest, most brokenly blissed-out moan of his life. Completely naked. Under a beautiful man…. _in a massage parlor_. 

He shifted his hips subtly, his growing hard-on becoming a dire situation. He’d never live it down if he got precum on Pete’s towels (thank god they were at least white, so they’d hide the stains well). 

“I thought so,” Pete chuckled. His hands, now on Patrick’s back again, paused for a moment. Patrick’s heart clenched in terror. Had Pete decided to stop their session and make him leave for being a pervert?

“Pete,” he said brokenly. “I di—”

“Shhhh,” Pete said soothingly, running his slick fingers, which he’d apparently just dribbled more oil onto, over Patrick’s lower back. “Your body is young and healthy and beautiful. You should never feel ashamed of it.”

Patrick huffed, starting to feel annoyed.

“I’m sorry if I pushed you too far,” came Pete’s voice softly. “I was only trying to prove a point to you. Sensual pleasure and sexual pleasure are kind of intertwined. It’s natural for one to lead to the other. Especially if you experience something enjoyable that your body isn’t used to.”

“Like a massage,” Patrick said, finishing the thought for him. “A really fucking good massage.”

“Yes,” Pete agreed. “But don’t worry; next time will feel less unexpected. Assuming you um…want to come back again.” His fingers drifted back up Patrick’s spine to his shoulders again. Patrick felt like putty in Pete’s firm, capable hands.

“God, yes,” he said quickly. “I mean…like whenever you can fit me in next week is good,” he amended. It couldn’t have worked out better that Pete could only see his back and not his face, because Patrick was sure his was beet red. He couldn’t have sounded more desperate if he’d tried.

Thankfully, Pete left the room a few minutes later to allow a noodle-limp Patrick to dress. He heard the muffled voices in the next room as Pete brought back his next client to get ready.

“Give it a day to see how you’re feeling,” Pete told him as they stood in the lobby. “Listen to your body and what it tells you. If you’re in a lot of pain, we’ll do sooner. If you’re feeling okay, we can probably wait a full week.”

Patrick nodded along, but he was barely listening. He instead watched the warm molten honey of Pete’s eyes as he spoke.

“I’ll warn you that I’m pretty much booked for the week,” Pete said hesitantly. “But if you need to come back quickly, I could probably stay late. And when I say late, I mean like nine or something. I don’t know how that works with your schedule.”

“I’d probably just fall asleep on your massage table,” Patrick joked. 

“No judgement from me,” Pete said, laughing along with him. 

“Yeah, that, um…that could work.” Patrick wasn’t a fool. He felt the moment it happened. Pete held out his hand, smooth and warm and capable of pleasures beyond this world. Patrick took it in his own ordinary hand, his palm tingling where it met Pete’s skin. He couldn’t be sure, but he saw something in the way Pete smiled at him as they said goodbye that proved he might have felt it, too.

When Patrick stepped out onto the sidewalk again, his fluttering heart carried him home. Joe had somehow been right—Pete was just his type.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments fuel my motivation to keep up with a story and help me keep a pulse on how my readers feel about the direction the story is taking, so if you have time and feel inclined, help a fic writer out. Or you can find me on tumblr @realdreams.
> 
> Hope everyone is healthy (mentally and physically) and staying safe out there. We're getting through this one day at a time!


	4. Two Rumors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick had arrived at two possible conclusions: either Pete was a fucking orgasm-granting wizard who was probably like a thousand years old under the gorgeous illusion he used to lure in his customers or he was a sadistic sex god sent to earth to exploit Patrick’s severe deficiency of carnal pleasure by teasing him to death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this chapter can provide a little pocket of peace for anybody who needs one right now. 
> 
> Also, don't get used to quick updates like this lol. I usually take a much longer time to write and even longer to edit.
> 
> Shout out to @StephG for providing the inspiration for my opening line!

Word spread through Patrick's office like the stampede from _The Lion King_ —fast and chaotic. The first rumor he heard Monday morning was that a full-fledged paralegal position was being posted. Patrick, morals and potential criminal charges aside, would run anyone (except probably his mom) over with a bus for it. 

He'd worked his ass off to make a name for himself, even in his bottom-of-the-food-chain position. He’d started off by making eerily accurate coffee runs, then built trust with a group of contract lawyers for keeping mum about the half-empty bottles of booze tucked above a ceiling tile in the men's bathroom. Recently, he’d started staying late so often that lawyers would plop their unfinished work on his desk as they skipped into the elevator for an early weekend. And Patrick took it in stride, making zero complaints about being underpaid or untrained for the work. The high and mighty attorneys got to go home and imbibe entire bottles of Dom Perignon by 6 p.m. while Patrick got invaluable experience in lawyerly duties—it was a win-win.

Patrick had done his time in the junior leagues and was ready to get his hands dirty, meaning he was thoroughly unamused when he walked in on the other law office peasants gossiping about him.

"Patrick and—yes! The new, hot one! They're _totally_ banging," he heard Sarah hiss urgently to Gabe just as Patrick turned the corner toward his desk. 

The pair froze, waiting for Patrick’s acknowledgement that he’d heard them. The gears turned in his head. He'd had about twenty seconds to process the whispers about the new position and already he was being hit with something else. Patrick knew exactly where he’d like to tell them to shove that rumor. Unfortunately, he also knew that he was incredibly lucky to be working at this horrible, nepotistic law firm and couldn't afford to let any of the scathing words he'd like to spew about Creepy Tom jeopardize his career path. 

In the end, Patrick just gave his usual greeting, fake smile pasted onto his face, and slumped down into his chair. He then commenced an Oscar-worthy performance of a Buckingham Palace guard as he pretended to be unruffled by the stares and giggles of his comrades. In reality, he just clicked around on his computer for a good half hour imagining scenarios in which a sleazy young lawyer _just happened_ to fall down a flight of concrete steps. Or off the roof. Patrick wasn’t too choosy about his homicidal fantasies.

Even after his initial bubbling outrage cooled into a frothy discontent, it took Patrick a full two hours to realize that he hadn’t recoiled in pain once today. There’d been a few twinges here and there, but nothing remarkable. Come to think of it, yesterday he’d woken up the morning after Pete’s mind-boggling massage to a nearly pain-free body for the first time in months.

Patrick had arrived at two possible conclusions: either Pete was a fucking orgasm-granting wizard who was probably like a thousand years old under the gorgeous illusion he used to lure in his customers or he was a sadistic sex god sent to earth to exploit Patrick’s severe deficiency of carnal pleasure by teasing him to death. 

Patrick didn’t care much either way. He just wanted to stay on Pete’s good side long enough to get some kind of relief from the spell Pete cast over him, even if it cost him half a year’s disposable income.

Still, it wasn’t just the physical connection—Patrick had been head over heels from the moment he’d heard Pete’s voice. When Patrick closed his eyes, all he saw were Pete’s stupidly bright big teeth; all he heard was Pete’s terrible laugh; all he felt was the press of warm, skillful fingers into his skin. 

Patrick’s chest ached with the longing to do something stupid and reckless, like burst into Pete’s massage parlor and kiss him, oily hands and all, right in front of whatever crazy-rich nude housewife he was rubbing down. But since he couldn’t skip out on work and still be a candidate for a promotion, much less the job he actually had, he’d have to settle for virtual communication.

He slid his phone out of his pocket and pulled up Pete’s contact on his phone, starting a new message. Was this a good idea? Probably not. Was he going to do it anyway? Hell yes. _I think your magic the other night worked. Still feeling pretty good today_ , he typed out. He considered adding an emoji or a suggestive joke, but they hadn’t talked since he’d almost come on Pete’s massage table. Keeping it simple was safer right now. 

He slipped his phone back in his pocket and waited for the telltale buzz of Pete’s reply against his thigh. Nothing. After twenty minutes of waiting, Patrick focused back on his work, trying not to be too consumed with disappointment. Had he crossed a line by texting Pete out of the blue? Had he imagined that look he’d shared with Pete as they said goodbye?

Patrick’s musings continued in the breakroom as he poured himself another cup of shitty coffee. He lamented that he didn’t have a lackey of his own to run and grab him a refill from the nearest Starbucks, because he could really use one of his favorite lattes right now. Patrick turned to go back to his desk and ran smack into a firm chest, his coffee sloshing dangerously close to the top of his cup. He stepped back in a panic, inspecting his clothes for spills. He breathed a sigh of relief when he found his outfit still spotless. 

“Careful there,” a vaguely familiar (yet incredibly irksome) voice said. Creepy Tom stood before him, smiling wickedly. Patrick wondered vaguely if Tom had some sort of Dorian Gray deal that sucked the ugliness from his soul, leaving behind a shiny veneer of hair gel and Armani suits. 

“Sorry about that,” Patrick said, as evenly as he could. 

“Are you?” Tom stepped closer, getting into Patrick’s personal bubble and making him increasingly uncomfortable. At least here, in the safety of their office, there were plenty of witnesses and a better escape route than a fall down an elevator shaft. All things considered, Tom couldn’t do anything too awful to him right now. 

“Are you sorry about spreading a rumor that we’re dating?” Patrick spat.

“Not at all. But I am sorry that the rumor reached you before I could make it true.”

Patrick fought to keep the bile from rising in his throat. Was this guy certifiably insane? Their only other interaction had been pure harassment in their work building’s elevator. Why _the fuck_ would Patrick go out with him when he had someone like Pe—

Or did he? Patrick’s phone buzzed in answer. He tried to dial down his glee so Creepy Tom wouldn’t mistake it as excitement for a possible date with him. “Um, well, I appreciate the offer, but I don’t really date coworkers. And just to be clear, I don’t date guys after they harass me, either, coworker or not.”

“Harass?” Tom raised a perfect eyebrow. “I merely made my…interest…very clear to you. I’m not aware of confidence or attraction being crimes.” He leaned in closer. Close enough that all Patrick could see was the gleaming white of his teeth, like two strings of perfectly shaped fake pearls. “And I know just about every law there is, including the rules in our company handbook. Nowhere does it state that employees can’t have relationships—only that they can’t be direct reports of each other.”

“That’s true,” Patrick admitted wearily. He looked around the breakroom, hoping someone would take pity on him and save him from this conversation and this man. Not a single soul in sight. They’d probably all dispersed, thinking that Tom would like a moment alone with his new boyfriend. Patrick’s stomach turned. He’d have to save himself this time. “But I don’t like to start bad habits. I mean, there’s a new paralegal position that I’m applying to. I don’t want anything to detract from my candidacy.”

The smile around the blindingly white teeth grew impossibly wider and even more concerning. “What a coincidence. That position just happens to work directly with me. Maybe if we work together and you get to know me better, you’ll see just how good we could be.” 

Patrick’s brain short circuited. No no no no _no_. This couldn’t be happening. His next job, _his dream career_ , couldn’t possibly involve being practically shackled to Creepy Tom. And yet…how could he not apply? All he’d done for the past year was blather on about how excited he’d be to move up the ranks, prove his worth. He should’ve heeded that adage of being careful what you wish for. “Uh—um…wow. I, um, I didn’t realize that. But I should have,” he said stiltedly. 

“So, you’ll consider the position? If I dispel the rumor? I mean, I wouldn’t want you to miss out on a chance at the job you’ve been working so hard for. Who knows when you’ll get another chance, _right_ , Patrick?” The way Creepy Tom said the words made them seem like a threat.

Fuck. He’d just gotten himself blackmailed. How was this happening? Fucking how?! He stood still, like if he kept pretending to be a statue, he’d eventually become one. “Um…”

“Patrick, I’m a busy man,” Creepy Tom urged him. “What will it be?”

Patrick refused to let this man keep intimidating him. If he wanted a battle, then Patrick would give him one. He raised his head to look Tom squarely in the eye. “Kill the rumor. I’ll apply.”

Creepy Tom’s smile twisted into the smug look of a man who had everything he wanted, a man who was untouchable. When he patted Patrick on the shoulder, Patrick recoiled from his touch.

Tom’s answering look made it clear that his cooperation was contingent upon Patrick’s own behavior. Patrick stared at the floor. “I have some neck and shoulder problems,” he offered as an explanation. Despite it being true, it still felt like a lie.

“Ah, I see,” he said. “Be sure you get that taken care of. The stress of a paralegal position can be quite hard on the body. I wouldn’t want to work with someone who wasn’t able to withstand the pressure.” His words were slow and careful and full of spiderwebs with Patrick’s name spun into them.

The only thing keeping Patrick from punching him right there was the _actual pain_ roaring to life like fucking Grendel along his spine as his muscles tensed. Patrick nodded his understanding and waited for Tom to disappear through the doorway before collapsing into the nearest chair with his now lukewarm coffee. 

He breathed deeply for a few moments, concentrating on the flow of his breath in and out, trying to release his tension. It appeared the damage had been done. His phone buzzed insistently in his pocket, reminding him that he had messages. He smiled as he opened his phone and saw notifications with Pete’s name. The smile was still frozen on his face as he read Pete’s string of responses.

 _Glad it worked_ , the messages began. _Hope you’re staying out of trouble with the local restaurants._

Then, the most recent message: _How’s the rest of your body doing after Saturday night?_ The message ended with a fucking winking emoji. The nerve!

He quickly tapped out a reply. _Pretty great yesterday and most of this morning, but work stress is a killer..._

A handful of seconds later, his phone buzzed again. _Work problems suck. That’s why I work for myself now. Anything I can do to help you feel better?_ A couple of emojis—a sad face and a bouquet of flowers—ended the message.

So Pete’s care for him wasn’t just artificial, then. Patrick smiled again. _Just talking to you is nice._ He hit the send button before he could delete the message and type something a lot less terrifying into the tiny text box. Despite the way his heartrate instinctively picked up, something told him it was safe to admit his interest in Pete. 

When a new message popped up with a few smiling emojis, followed by _I like talking to you, too_ , Patrick relaxed back into his chair. Sure, he might be getting blackmailed into the position of his dreams under the tutelage of a man who personified the seedy underbelly of capitalism and his tension might be building into painful knots throughout his entire upper body, but he had a crush on a _gorgeous masseuse who just might like him back_. And Pete? Patrick didn’t know him well yet, but the emotion blooming in his chest with every text from Pete felt like a promise of something bigger than his mundane problems. Patrick couldn’t wait to see Pete again.

***

“Joe, I’m telling you, this guy is going to make my life a living hell. I don’t know what to _do_.”

“Can you go to HR?” Joe asked. He was helping Patrick hang the remainder of his clothes up in the closet. So far, Patrick had only unpacked a few work essentials and a couple of t-shirts.

Patrick sighed. “No, I really can’t. Not if I want this position.” He handed Joe a stack of dress pants that were already arranged neatly on hangers.

“Okay, but like, don’t you think they’d like fire him or something for harassing another employee?” Joe seemed startled by Patrick’s lack of faith in his workplace’s moral fortitude. He wasn’t sure if that said more about his professional experience or Joe’s.

“No,” Patrick said, “no, I don’t think they would. He’s going around touting how he went to some fancy law school and everybody’s so impressed with him, and—I just don’t see any scenario where they’d choose me over him.” Patrick went quiet, hoping the thought would sink in and become more comfortable with each passing second. Instead, it just revolted him more. He made a face at Joe. “Even if by some miracle, they took me seriously, they would never fire him. I’d have to withdraw my application and then everyone would start asking why I practically have a restraining order against the guy I was supposedly dating. I wouldn’t stand a chance of getting promoted again with that kind of reputation.”

Joe slid hangers along the rod in Patrick’s closet, and Patrick wondered why he needed such a big closet. He didn’t have much of a life outside of work and hanging out with Joe. All he needed were a handful of crisp button-downs, some trousers, a few t-shirts, and a pair of jeans. 

Joe shook his head. “Man, I’m out of my depth here. Things just aren’t like that at the station. Everyone has each others’ backs.” He stared at the back of Patrick’s nearly empty closet like he’d discovered the Mona Lisa stashed there, then glanced at Patrick with a sly smile. “Maybe a certain masseuse could help you talk through your problems” Joe said suggestively. “Speaking of, how was your visit the other night?”

“Um, it was good. I liked being there and he did good work. His hands were like fucking magic, I swear. I’ve been feeling really good until that asshole came and ruined it all,” Patrick said, whipping a few shirts at the wall as best he could, given the spike of pain in his shoulder. The clothes hit the crisp white paint with a satisfying smack.

Joe raised an eyebrow at him, but nonetheless bent over to retrieve the runaway clothing. “Now Pete’s the one you should be dating and obsessing over, not this Tom creepo. And was I right or was I right when I said he was hot and exactly your type?”

“I—he’s…” Patrick struggled, unsure how to put what he was feeling toward Pete into words. It wasn’t like the other times he’d been infatuated with someone. This felt more mature, bigger. It held potential for something that Patrick knew he’d never truly felt before, and he knew Joe would laugh in his face if he told him any of that. Joe gave him a stern look that said he wasn’t letting Patrick get away with a generic answer. “Okay, he’s hot! Like…really hot. Is that good enough for you?”

Joe smiled smugly. “I knew you’d like him. Feeling the butterflies already, dude?”

“I—” And there was that look again from Joe. “Yes, all right? Yes, I like him. He’s cute and funny and easy to talk to, but that doesn’t mean I can tell him all about my work problems. That’s not the kind of stuff you unload on someone you’re just meeting.”

Joe shook his head, his expression amused. “Dude, Pete won’t care. I guarantee you. That’s not the kind of guy he is. He’s…” Joe watched Patrick carefully, assessing how much he should tell Patrick. Great, was Pete a drug lord? A gang member? A pornstar? There always had to be something wrong with someone who was by all accounts perfect, yet not taken. “He’s been through some stuff,” Joe continued. “I don’t like to ask questions about people’s personal situations, but he went through like this whole transformation a few years ago, and he’s a different guy now. Like, he’s a good person—a really caring guy—and I think if you gave him a chance, he’d want to help you feel better.”

Patrick hesitated, plucking at a loose thread on his comforter. 

Joe crossed his arms and gave him a scathing look that Patrick swore every mom should have in their back pocket. “Look, you don’t have to like, divulge your deepest, darkest secrets or anything. Just give him a call. Hearing his voice might help.”

***

Two hours later, Patrick lay on the couch, pretending to watch an episode of _Friends_ while he stared at his phone screen. His thumb hovered over the call button, Pete’s number in large text right above it. To call or not to call? 

Patrick was working on a formula to calculate the creepiness level of trying to befriend your new massage therapist when the sudden shrill ring of his phone made the choice for him. He yelped and nearly dropped the device when Pete’s contact lit up the screen. He hit the accept button. “Hi, um…hi,” he said awkwardly. He should really take a course in phone skills or something. 

“Hey, I just locked up for the night. Uh, is this a good time?” Patrick heard the bustling sounds of the city through Pete’s end of the phone. He was so eager to talk to Patrick that he couldn’t wait until he was home? Patrick’s heart felt like it’d been dipped in hot chocolate, the warm liquid flowing sticky and sweet into his veins with each heartbeat. 

“Yeah, yeah, it’s a good time. Late night?”

Pete sighed. The sound was comforting to Patrick. He could listen to it on recording to fall asleep. “Yeah, it was a long day. Had some clients who kept me waiting and then I had to shift my day back.”

“Ugh, sounds like we both had shitty days,” Patrick remarked.

“Agreed.” Was it a sign that Patrick was too far gone if his heart sped up at the sound of someone’s horrible laugh? “Enough about my stupid day,” Pete said. “What happened at work? Have you gotten a chance to relax since you got home?”

Patrick turned off the TV; there was no use in pretending to watch anymore. “Yeah, a bit. Um, Joe came over and helped me unpack a little more. I can now use my entire record collection _and_ my wardrobe.”

“You collect records? Me, too!” Pete said, his enthusiasm tangible through the phone. “How many do you have?”

Patrick eyed the towering assortment of albums stacked on a bookcase by the kitchen. He had _a lot_. More than any reasonable person should have. Ordinarily, he’d lie through his teeth, but Pete was also a collector. “Um…at least few hundred?” he said warily.

A noise that sounded dangerously close to a squeal came through the receiver. Patrick smiled fondly. “I take it you have a similar behemoth of a bookcase packed to the gills with black vinyl disks?”

“Oh, do I ever,” Pete chattered back. “Hey, um…we should compare sometime.”

“Oh? I-I mean, we _could_ , um…” Shit, at the idea of Pete coming over to browse through his records Patrick’s body became equal parts hard-on and hives. Because the invitation was also an excuse to get in Patrick’s pants, right? God, if he was getting this wrong, he would spontaneously combust from humiliation. “How about next session we each bring our top five and we compare?”

“Yeah, totally,” Pete said, not missing a beat. But Patrick could detect the note of disappointment in his voice, despite the clamor of car horns muffling his reply. 

“So, um…speaking of next time. I, uh, I was feeling really good yesterday and most of the morning. Like, perfect, actually.” 

Pete hummed speculatively. “I’m sensing a ‘but’ here…”

“No, you’re not massaging my ass next time, no matter how you try to convince me.”

“Pretty please?” Pete whined. “I’m just _dying_ for a handful of thick, juicy—”

“Oh my god! No, this is not happening again!” Patrick covered his face with one of his hands.

Pete’s end went silent except for the sounds of the city, which had quieted down a bit now. Pete must be getting close to home. “Shit, I—I’m not on speakerphone again, am I?”

“No, I will only make that mistake with you once.” 

Pete sighed in relief. “Well thank god for that. I love dirty talk as much as the next guy, but it’s more of a ‘for your ears only’ kind of deal.”

Patrick felt a rush of goosebumps over his skin and a tingle that went right to his cock, like it was a beacon for Pete’s innuendos. “Well, um, I won’t tell anyone,” Patrick stumbled through his response. “Your secrets are safe with me.”

“Good,” Pete said warmly. “Now let’s get back to how you’re feeling. You were going to tell me something before I steered the conversation into the gutter where my mind lives, right?”

“Yeah,” Patrick said, “thanks for reminding me.” Wow, a guy who knew how to listen _and_ work with his hands…Was Pete even real? His mind ran through a catalog of the skills he knew Pete had so far. Dirty talk? Check. Strong, warm, caressing hands? Check. Ability to coax Patrick’s cock to full hardness through a phone? Fucking double check.

“And you wanted to tell me…”

And there Patrick was doing that thing again, being so preoccupied having thoughts he couldn’t voice that he lost where he was in the conversation. “Just that um…I think I need to see you again?”

“You don’t sound so sure. Tell me what’s up? What’s your body telling you?”

 _To hunt you down like an animal and fuck you in the middle of the street_ , Patrick’s mind supplied. No, he needed _clean_ things to say to Pete, because he really was in pain again, and he actually did need to see Pete for another appointment. “Um, it’s saying that it and I both had a stressful day because the next step in our career will quite possibly be miserable.”

“Oh,” Pete said softly. Patrick heard the jingle of keys as Pete slid them into the lock on his door. “I’m sorry, Patrick. Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not, um, not really. It's not good to dwell on that kind of stuff."

"Nonsense!" Pete chirped. "It's cathartic to let out your stress, as long as it doesn't consume your life.” A beat of silence. “I promise I won't judge, either, if that's something you're worried about," he added quietly. 

Patrick felt a tickle in the back of his mind, hearing Pete's normally overbearing presence retreat so quickly. But this wasn't the time or way to ask about it, so he stashed the thought away for later. "It's just...this guy at work."

"Oh."

And now Pete's warm honey voice started to freeze over, and Patrick couldn't, simply _couldn't_ let it turn completely to ice. "Notlikethat," he rushed out. "No, he's a complete _dick_ and I hope he chokes on his own bile. While he’s on the toilet having diarrhea from some fucking thousand-dollar seafood dish I’ve never heard of!"

Pete took his outburst in stride. “Well, if you hate him, then I do, too. And if the fish doesn’t get him, then I hope he contracts chlamydia _and_ gonorrhea.” 

They chuckled together into the phone before the distant beeps of a microwave came through the receiver. "But what did he do that made him worth our collective wrath?" Pete asked.

"You're eating," Patrick said guiltily. "I should go. I don't want to bother you during dinner."

"Hey, I called _you_ , remember? Now keep going with the story. I need a distraction to help these leftovers go down."

Patrick smiled. Was it possible to fall in love this quickly? Because he hadn't felt this comfortable, cuddly feeling with any of his exes. And well, there was a reason they were his exes. "So, he...I think he likes me or something and he's being a total creep about it. Like breathing all over me in the elevator. Then I find out he's new at work and he's way over my position."

"Hmm, well I can't really blame the guy for the lack of self-control. I mean, you are pretty cute," Pete said, just throwing out the words casually, like Patrick wasn't going into cardiac arrest on the other end of the line. Cute! Pete had called him cute! 

"But that's no reason to creep someone out," Pete continued. "In fact, just the opposite. He should be humiliating himself by leaving you pornographic voicemails, like I probably would've done if you hadn't picked up. Oh, and don't let it intimidate you too much that he's above you in a professional hierarchy. He has a crappy personality to go with his shiny resume. I’m guessing he probably has no friends and can't even get his mom to call on his birthday."

Patrick was roaring with laughter now, reaching for a tissue as tears escaped down his face. "Oh my god. You're probably right about all of that. I wish I could ignore him, but...here's the tough part: he started a rumor that we're dating, and everyone in the office has heard it already. And, as if that wasn't bad enough, the new promotion I've been waiting over a year for works directly with him. So if I want my dream job, I'm gonna have to suck it up. Or I have to lose out on something I've worked really hard for."

Pete was quiet on the other end of the line. Patrick heard the soft sounds of him chewing. "Hmm...well my first question for you is do you really think this is your dream job? Like if you could choose anything in the world to leave as your legacy, one major task to spend your whole career tackling, do you know that this particular job would be part of it?"

When Patrick saw aunts and uncles at a family party or he ran into old friends, they always asked about the tried-and-true subjects—jobs, if he wanted to get married and have kids. Nobody gave a shit about what Patrick thought his life’s purpose was. To hear Pete, a guy he’d just met a few days ago, asking him about his life goals was shaking up all of the little loose bits in his brain, like particles in a snow globe. "Well, I mean, it's what I went to school for. I don’t know if I’d say it’s like _why I’m here_ , but I like what I do and I can’t think of any other occupation for myself. Plus, I know I can do better than half the people in that job already."

"Okay, so you're pretty set on your path. That's a good thing," Pete assured him in between bites of his food. "Do you think you can move to a different company and get basically the same job?"

Patrick hesitated. "I could get a similar job at another company, but the one I work for pays really well and I just bought a house, so...not really feasible unless I want to move out already."

"Got it. So moving on is not a great option. So if you’re going to stay, there are two ways of thinking. Way number one is, are you really going to apply for a job that you know might make you significantly less comfortable than the one you have now because it’s the quickest way to your dream? Like, is it worth the clout and the trophy to have to deal with him, or should you wait and let somebody else take this one?”

Patrick sighed heavily. “Well, it’s hard to say. I got into this firm with connections—that’s how this place works. And I’ve been talking about how badly I want to move up, so people are expecting me to go for it. But at the same time, I’d really hate to go to work every day and have to deal with that asshole. He said something like he hopes us working together would make me see how good we could be. He’s like, the guy they make sexual harassment training videos _for and about_.”

“Hmm, so what’s his level of creepiness? Like is he just a nuisance, or does he belong in a jail cell?” Pete mused.

“I–I have no way of knowing that right now,” Patrick admitted. “He might be a serial killer and I’ll find out while he’s stabbing me. Or, he could just be a somewhat normal guy who thinks sexual harassment is a form of flirting.”

“In my experience, a lot of guys are misinformed about the difference between harassment and flirting,” Pete said sarcastically. Patrick snorted. 

“I won’t say it’s impossible for him to be a serial killer, but the likelihood is pretty low,” Pete reasoned. “So here’s the other side of the coin: are you going to let some asshole, who will probably get fired in six months, dictate your career and rob you of something you deserve?”

Patrick nodded, his mind spinning with questions before he realized Pete was on the phone and couldn't hear his nod. "Yeah. Yeah, that does make sense. I'm going to have a lot to think about. This is why I got so stressed out today, and now my pain is flaring up again." As if on cue, a surge of prickling heat traveled through the arm holding up his phone, the sensation so intense he almost dropped a thousand dollars of metal and plastic on his hardwood floor. 

"I'm so sorry that creep ruined some of the progress we made," Pete said genuinely. "If you want to come back sooner, I can stay late and squeeze you in tomorrow. Is 9 okay?"

Tomorrow? Pete was so eager to see him that he was going to work until 10 at night? "Yeah, yeah, 9 works," he assured Pete. Inside, he was screaming like a teenage girl getting asked out by her crush. 

“Excellent.” Patrick could hear the smile in Pete’s voice. “And until then, do you have like ice or any muscle rubs with menthol in them, like Icy Hot?”

“Yes to ice, no to menthol. Unless melting some expired cough drops would do the trick?”

Patrick smiled at the sound of Pete’s laughter. “I can’t say I’ve ever tried that,” Pete said. “Go for it and let me know what happens.”

"Oh, now I have to,” Patrick teased. “Well, I’m off to go microwave some cough drops, so…”

“So you want to go?”

“I don’t _want_ to, but I really should.” Patrick sighed, running his fingers through his hair in frustration. If he had it his way, he’d never hang up, but he didn’t want this—whatever _it_ was that had him wanting to doodle his and Pete’s names together—to go too fast, to head right to them giggling all night on the phone like teenagers. “I need to get to sleep soon, and I’m sure you do, too. Thanks for helping me talk through everything with my shoulder, with work. You're, uh, a good listener."

Pete chuckled. "Anytime. But between you and me, I think it has more to do with the talker than my listening skills.”

Patrick was relieved that Pete couldn’t see his blush through the phone. “You’re such a sweet-talker,” he mumbled.

“Only for the cute guys. Sleep well, Patrick. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? Don’t forget to bring some records. And promise you’ll text me if you need something, or if that asshole bothers you.”

Patrick heard the sincerity in Pete's words, and he just....“I promise, and I won’t forget the records. See you tomorrow night, Pete.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry Creepy Tom came back for a visit. He's going to stick around for a bit, but he won't hurt anyone. The massages will be back next chapter ;)


	5. Heightened Nerves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You must not have had many dance partners.”
> 
> “I’ve had a fair amount, but none of them quite like you,” Pete admitted.
> 
> Something in his tone made Patrick’s heart flutter. He hid his face in Pete’s shoulder. “Do you treat all the guys like this?” Patrick murmured. “Luring them in with dancing to their favorite music?”
> 
> “Only the cute ones,” Pete purred in his ear.
> 
> Patrick felt his face grow warm. “You keep calling me cute.”
> 
> “I’ll say it as many times as it takes for you to start believing it,” Pete promised, making Patrick’s heart go just the slightest bit gooey. Pete’s fingers traced over the lines of Patrick’s body ever so lightly, slowly bringing his nerve endings to life, like a warmup for what was next. “You ready for the main event?” Pete asked.
> 
> God, was he ever…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently, I am cursed to under promise and over deliver with this fic and have the exact opposite problem with my other one...
> 
> Anyway, buckle up for more of Creepy Tom's antics, a bit of phone banter, and another massage...
> 
> Enjoy!

Patrick’s hands were sweating—positively leaking evidence of his strung-out nerves like he was Nick Wallenda walking on a high wire. Except a Wallenda wouldn’t be sweating profusely, because they’ve been trained since birth, their art written into their DNA. Patrick’s career path had started on a whim his second semester of college when his mom threatened to stop splitting his tuition with him if he didn’t pick a major. Therefore, he had just enough reason to doubt himself, despite the overwhelming evidence of his skill in his field. 

And so he was mentally berating and tormenting himself as he stared unblinkingly at the screen of his work computer. To click or not to click? His cursor hovered over the submit button as he ran through all the reasons in his head, once again, that he _should_ be submitting his application.

  1. He is perfectly qualified
  2. He works his ass off. In fact, he’d been in an hour early today
  3. He shouldn’t be letting an asshole like Creepy Tom (Patrick really should stop calling him that in his head, just in case he lets it slip into conversation) intimidate him into or out of anything
  4. ~~Patrick wants this job to impress Pete~~



He was so fucked.

“Hey, what’s up?”

Patrick heard the hesitant voice from just over his shoulder. He looked up to see Sarah, one of the people he’d overheard gossiping about him dating—no _fucking_ —Creepy Tom yesterday. Patrick was tempted to flip her off and get back to battling the patriarchy in peace, but he was pretty sure that would end in his application being voided as he carried out his sharpie collection and a stack of expired Pizza Hut coupons in a cardboard box. “Yes?” he asked dully.

“Hey, um…” Her wide eyes looked nervous as they flicked up to meet his, her hands wringing together. “I wanted to apologize. About yesterday.”

Patrick sat back in his chair now, relaxing. This should be good.

“I shouldn’t have been saying things like that. About you and that new lawyer. I don’t really have an excuse, but…I’m sorry.”

That was it? She’d spread a potentially career-ending rumor about him, completely unfounded, and now she expected him to roll out the red carpet to welcome her back into his forgiving arms? Hell no. Just as he was formulating a work-friendly way to tell her to fuck off, Patrick noticed her gaze drift. Her eyes were suddenly fixed on the screen of his computer. Her mouth dropped open. “You’re applying for the job? After all those rumors?”

Patrick gave a nonchalant shrug, like he hadn’t just spent the last ten minutes before she’d walked up warring with himself over clicking the fucking button that would send his resume to HR. “Yeah, why not? I’ve been wanting to move into the paralegal position for a while now. Am I just supposed to not apply because someone said something about me that wasn’t true?”

“I mean, it’s your prerogative,” she said, holding her hands up. “I just think it’s a little soon to be putting your name out there like that. I mean, you don’t _have_ to submit it right now. You can still back out, think about it some more.”

"Nah, I’m good." Patrick turned back to his computer and clicked the submit button fearlessly, and not at all like the person who’d been mentally waterboarding himself over this decision a minute ago.

Sarah’s eyes widened in astonishment. "I wish I was that brave," she whispered. "Good luck." She patted him on the arm and ran off to wherever it was gossips liked to hang out in a law office. He turned back to his desk and stared in horror at the "Thank you for submitting your application" splash page on his browser. Good god, what had he just done?

Patrick's phone buzzed on his desk, the screen lighting up with a text from Pete. Patrick smiled, the volatile whirling in his mind calming into a light, airy breeze. Because that's the effect being near Pete or talking to Pete or even _thinking_ about Pete had on him. They'd been texting since shortly after they'd hung up last night. Pete's contact now had several emojis next to it that Patrick refused to disclose the meaning of to any other living soul.

 _How's work so far?_ the message read.

Patrick typed a quick reply. _Complicated. Time to talk?_

 _For you? Of course_ , Pete responded.

Patrick slid his phone into his pocket and snuck off to the bathroom. When he pushed the door open, he saw it was empty. He locked himself in a stall and called Pete. 

"Hey, what's up?" came a soothing voice from the speaker pressed to Patrick's ear.

God, it felt so heavenly just to hear his voice. Has Patrick mentioned yet today how completely and thoroughly _fucked_ he is to be feeling like this toward his _massage therapist_? Could he be any more cliché? "I did it," he bit out, his voice strained from the lingering tightness in his body. 

"You applied?" Pete asked. "How do you feel?"

"Like the hounds of hell are chasing me,” Patrick whined.

"Oh god. That's not good. Why did you submit it, then?"

"I-I did it in a brazen moment of anger,” Patrick admitted, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. “And I may or may not be having regrets."

"He didn't pressure you, did he?" Pete's tone was clipped, a threatening edge to it. The idea that Pete had a protective side, an instinct to have Patrick’s back, was kind of unspeakably hot.

So Patrick spilled. "No, not him. This chick who was spreading the rumor yesterday, well, I was trying to decide if I should send my application and she walked up and started talking about the rumors and saying she was sorry and then she saw my screen and was like 'oh, you're not really going to apply for that after all the rumors, are you?'” he said, doing an absolutely deplorable job of mimicking Sarah’s voice. “So I fucking did it! Right in front of her."

"Oh, goodness," Pete said, chuckling lightly. "You really showed her, huh? And now you’re suffering from buyer's remorse?"

Patrick made a miserable sound. There were no words on this earth to describe how torturously ambivalent he felt. 

"Aww, you'll get through it. No matter what happens,” Pete said, his tone calm and comforting, like a warm blanket and a batch of fresh-baked cookies. “Aren’t you at least curious to see if you'll get an interview?"

"I want to crawl into a hole and never see the light of day again." Patrick rested his forehead against the stall door. It was perfectly uncomfortable, and therefore the only thing that felt physically right at this moment. 

Pete made a sympathetic noise as he tinkered with what sounded like glass on the other end. He must be at the massage parlor already. 

"You're working, aren't you?" Here he was feeling guilty again, just like last night when Pete listened to his workplace woes all through his dinner.

"Patrick, listen to me. You are _never_ a bother. If I didn't want to talk to you, I wouldn't and that's that. So stop it with the guilt. I can feel it through the phone."

"Okay, I'll try. I promise," Patrick told him. His heart was full to bursting with how much affection he felt toward Pete. Pete owed him nothing, was a practical stranger, but he'd shown Patrick more care and compassion in the last week than most people Patrick was close to had shown him in his entire life. He'd promise Pete just about anything—a million dollars, his kidney, his soul—normal stuff.

"It’ll be okay, Patrick. It'll all play out how it's supposed to. But if you really don't want to go through with it, you can always go to HR and just say you had something come up and it's not a good time to take on a new position anymore."

Patrick added “genius” to the already unreasonable list of skills Pete possessed. "That's...not a bad idea, actually. Aren't you supposed to be a massage therapist, not like a mental health therapist?"

"I'll be whatever kind of therapist you want me to be," Pete said in a husky voice.

Patrick silently reprimanded his cock for trying to perk up. "Roleplay, huh? Sexy. But unfortunately we're both at work and will be for a number of hours I'd rather not consider. Can I get a rain check?"

"Of course. You can get just about anything you'd like."

Patrick's face felt hot. "Well somebody's not the virtuous masseuse they said they were, huh?"

"I try to wait until the third appointment for that kind of stuff. Keep it classy, you know?"

Patrick had a suggestive reply on the tip of his tongue, but just then, the door to the bathroom opened. "Can't talk," he coughed into the phone. 

"Mmm. I wish I could be the kind of guy to keep you on the phone and say all sorts of things to get you hot and bothered in a bathroom stall at work. But fortunately for you, I'm the kind of guy who prefers a visual, so I guess I'll let you go. Try not to have a panic attack at work, okay? I'll see you tonight. Bye, Patrick."

Pete hung up before Patrick had to decide if saying goodbye was worth being the "bathroom cell phone guy" at the office. He hadn't really been paying attention to the intruder of his lovely private moment with Pete, so Patrick wasn't even sure if the guy was still there. He slowly unlatched the stall door and, hearing no indication of another person's presence, he stepped out—and was immediately met with a wall of hair gel and inappropriately expensive clothing. 

"Good morning, Patrick. How are you today?"

Ugh, of fucking _course_. "Fine," he bit out.

"Just fine? No 'thank you for stopping that rumor, Tom. I'm really hoping we get to work together, Tom'?" Creepy Tom’s usual charm had become brittle, some of his less refined qualities bleeding through the cracks.

"I'm supposed to thank you for stopping a rumor you started in the first place?"

"Everyone knows your name now," Tom said with a shrug. This asshole totally didn't get it.

Patrick held his head in his hand. The telltale pulses of pain trickled down his arms as his muscles tensed. "Okay, look. I've been wanting this position for a long time. It's all I've talked about since I started here. I worked hard to make myself known in whatever capacity I could—and through positive things, at that. Now you've tarnished that hard-won reputation and made it so that the only way I can get what I deserve is by enduring your never-ending passes at me and you actually expect me to be grateful to you?" Patrick's voice had risen with each word, so he cut himself off before his voice grew to a shriek. His accusatory finger was wagging in the taller man's face, his whole hand quivering as his body was wracked with outrage.

Tom lay a heavy hand on his shoulder. It would've been a gesture of support from anyone else, but coming from him, it felt like possession. It took every ounce of Patrick’s willpower not to wince and shrink away, like last time. "Look, Patrick. I know you're probably really stressed lately. You don't know what you're saying. Perhaps you need a little time to process things. In the meantime, I left you a little something on your desk. I hope it'll be a step to getting on your good side."

Patrick’s brain struggled to filter his response for words that would’ve landed him in HR with an exit interview. Before he finished, Creepy Tom had already swept out the door again. Patrick glanced back at the stall he’d come from. Would projectile vomiting in the bathroom qualify as a workplace disturbance?

No, he’d met his embarrassment quota for the day, so officially, he couldn’t engage in any further humiliating activities. With a soul-weary sigh, he exited the bathroom and had a solid twenty-two seconds to compose himself before he arrived at his desk and saw _it_.

Patrick halted in his tracks. _It_ was a dark navy handkerchief, embroidered with delicate gold thread, including a shape that looked suspiciously like the upper left quarter of the letter _P_ in ridiculously fancy script.

He eyed the “gift” with contempt where it lay folded elegantly on his keyboard atop a velvet pouch, like a contract with Satan. A glance around showed that it hadn’t been noticed much by anyone else yet. Or his coworkers had excellent sleuthing skills (which they probably did). He supposed he’d better deal with this before another rumor arose that a jilted Tom was trying to win Patrick back.

Patrick squared his shoulders, calmly strode to his desk, threw open his center drawer, and—checking for prying eyes—swept the offending item into his collection of cheap pens with the determination and speed of someone squashing a bug.

He let out his breath. The deed was done, and no harm had come from it. He hoped this wouldn’t become a Thing™ that he’d have to mention to HR. With a silent prayer that there was some sort of article out there about inappropriate workplace gifts, he slid out his phone, fully intending to open a new internet tab, when he saw Pete had messaged him.

 _Saw a wanted ad for a guy with red hair for making "an obscene phone call in a public place”. Didn't turn you in b/c you’re too sweet for prison_ ;)

Patrick smirked and typed out a response. _How generous of you! I wish everyone was as thoughtful about my reputation._

The reply came rapidly. _Is he bothering you again?_ Pete ended the message with various emojis that all hinted at what he’d like to do to Creepy Tom’s eggplant if he didn’t stop messing with Patrick.

Patrick tried not to consider what it meant that Pete felt the need to protect Patrick’s nonexistent virtue, but the sentiments of the message still made him feel oddly warm and bubbly inside. _Have I mentioned how you have a talent for bringing humor to even the worst situations?_

_Oh? Tell me more…_

_Later, I swear! I really have to work now, or I’m definitely not getting the promotion I might not want anyway_ , Patrick sent back. 

_Roger that_ came Pete's reply. _You need them to offer it to you before you can have the opportunity to tell them to shove it._

_Yes, that exactly. See you tonight, okay?_

Patrick typed an answer out giddily. _Can’t wait! Try to have a good day. If you need me, I can sneak in a text here and there._

Patrick smiled, basking in that contented feeling of liking someone and having them like him back. His computer pinged as a new email came through, interrupting his reverie about Pete’s smile. _Eyes on the prize_ , he reminded himself. And so he got back to work. Soon enough, he’d be with Pete and everything would feel right with the world.

***

Patrick was standing awkwardly in the lobby of Pete’s office when Pete’s last official client of the day snuck out. Their head was buried in a hoodie, face averted. He realized with a bit of shock that it was probably someone he’d seen on a magazine cover. So now he was rubbing shoulders with starlets. What the actual fuck was Patrick’s life turning into? 

Then Pete swept in, smile bright, bringing a flood of warmth with him. “Patrick,” he said affectionately. His hands were soft on Patrick’s skin as he drew him into an _embrace_. Apparently, that was something they did now? 

Patrick must’ve stiffened in shock, because suddenly Pete pulled back. "Sorry, I'm a very clingy person," Pete apologized. Pete’s face was full of vibrant energy. Patrick wanted to pull out a straw and suck it up like lemonade in ninety-degree weather. “So how was the rest of work? Do I need to remove that guy’s eggplant or what?”

“We’ll see,” Patrick told him. “He actually insinuated that I should be _grateful_ to him for ending the rumor _and_ that everyone in the office now knows my name.”

“The bastard!” Pete interjected. “Did you go all old-time Hollywood and slap him?”

“It’s generally frowned upon to lay hands on a coworker. I signed forms and watched training videos about it.”

Pete crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. “Has that stopped him?”

Okay, maybe Pete had a point…

One of Pete’s hands trailed up to tilt Patrick’s chin so their eyes would meet. “I’m not saying you should literally slap your coworker. I actually don’t normally condone violence. At least, not anymore,” he added with a wink. “But if your opponent bends the rules, sometimes you have to do the same to show them you’re standing your ground. If all else fails, put his office supplies in Jell-o,” Pete said with a shrug.

“See, _you’re_ good at this kind of stuff. I’m beyond hopeless at this… _office politics_ stuff.” Patrick wrinkled his nose.

Pete gave him a sympathetic smile, rubbing his shoulder lightly. “That’s why you should have the job, Patrick. Because you’re not like the rest of the bloodthirsty vipers. I wish I could, like, morph into you and take care of it all, but I doubt you have access to Harry Potter–level magic. Right?”

If Patrick had access to magic, he’d have Pete naked and whimpering on the massage table by now. “Definitely not magically inclined.”

“Darn, well, that’s a shame,” Pete told him, walking in a slow circle around Patrick. His breath tickled Patrick’s neck, making him shudder. “But even if I can’t magically fix your work life for you, there is one thing I _can_ do to help,” he purred in Patrick’s ear, nodding toward the hallway, where the massage rooms were.

Patrick’s heartrate picked up. In a matter of minutes—seconds, even—he’d have Pete’s magical hands on his bare skin again, drawing out the pain and suffering, leaving only bliss behind. 

“Lead the way.” 

Pete smiled as he ushered Patrick down the hall and into the first room. 

As Patrick crossed the threshold, the aroma of lavender struck him, his bones turning to jelly. “Relaxing, right?” came Pete’s voice from behind his ear. 

“Yes,” he sighed softly, taking in the several dozen purple candles littering every conceivable surface, the pristine stack of cloudlike towels atop the massage table. A tiny tabletop fountain trickled in the far corner. Was this some sort of masseuse seduction technique? He sure hoped so. Otherwise, this was starting to feel more like—no, that wasn’t possible. Someone as hot as Pete shouldn’t want someone like him.

“I’m not trying to be, um, you know…with the candles and all.” Pete gestured awkwardly around the room. “I just thought since you had a rough week, and um, lavender is proven to be the most calming scent—”

“I like it,” Patrick cut in quietly. “Thank you, Pete.”

Pete’s answering smile glowed with pride, his amber eyes full of latent passion in the dim light of the candles. “You should set your stuff down so we can get started.”

Patrick walked over to the chair, carefully toeing off his shoes, stalling for time. Did Pete expect him to undress? Would that be weird with him in the room? He wished he’d thought at all about how different it would feel to be here with Pete again, now that they’d gotten so personal so quickly. Patrick was telling him about his _work problems_ , for god’s sake. And Pete _actually seemed to care_. 

“I have a surprise for you,” came Pete’s voice from behind him. Patrick hoped the surprise was Pete’s dick. 

Patrick was only slightly disappointed when he turned around to see an eager Pete presenting him a record player. “You brought your record player?”

“Yeah,” Pete said, like it had been the most obvious thing to do. “I thought we could play one of your records.”

 _I’m in a candlelit room with an unbelievably hot guy who wants to listen to my favorite music_. Right. Totally realistic for someone like Patrick. “Are you real? Like an actual person, and not a robot or an alien or a ghost?”

Pete chuckled, his eyes crinkling up at the corners, and—fuck, he was getting more and more irresistible with each second that passed. “I swear I’m a real boy,” Pete said, holding his right hand up like he was taking an oath. “Well, a real _man_ ,” he amended. “I swear I’m legal.”

 _Nothing about you should be legal_ , Patrick thought, eyeing the curling lines of ink peeking out from under Pete’s shirt.

A knowing smile flashed across Pete’s face. “What’s not legal is you keeping me from snooping through your music.” 

Patrick rolled his eyes and handed the bag of his albums over to Pete, watching as his face lit up with glee, like a kid sneaking through Christmas presents. “Oooh, David Bowie. Tom Waits.” He pulled each album out and stared at them in wonder, like Patrick had just presented him the crown jewels.

“Well, now you’ve seen mine,” Patrick said in what he hoped was a sexy voice. “Show me yours.” 

Pete wiggled his eyebrows. “I like a man who knows what he wants.” He reached into a cabinet on the side of the room, producing a stack of battered cardboard-covered albums and handing them over to Patrick with a flourish. Some were predictable (Bob Dylan) and others completely caught him off guard. “You listen to rock, huh?”

Pete shrugged. “I was raised listening to one kind of music, and when I got older, I chose some other styles to listen to, but the old stuff still has a special place in my heart.” He gestured at Patrick’s records, which he’d set next to the player. “Which one’s your favorite?”

Patrick didn’t even hesitate as he plucked one from the stack and handed it over to Pete. Pete smiled as he set the record on the player and let it spin, the sound of David Bowie’s voice filling the small room. Sure, it wasn’t exactly calming instrumental spa music, but it made Patrick happy. 

“May I have this dance?” Pete held out his hand to Patrick, his hips already swaying to the beat, and Patrick—well, he only had so much self-restraint, okay? He latched onto Pete in an instant and was suddenly being spun around the room, the sound of Pete’s laughter clashing horribly with the music in a way that made Patrick smile so widely it hurt. 

And that’s how Patrick ended up in a massage parlor, letting this guy who’d come to mean so much to him in such a short amount of time twirl him and dip him and pull him in close. The playful smirk on Pete’s face had Patrick daydreaming of a world where he and Pete were together, and this was just their typical Tuesday night. 

“You are a terrible dancer,” Patrick laughed. “But your energy is admirable.” 

"What was that? 'Pete, you're a lovely dancer. Thank you for sharing your insane skills with me.'?"

Patrick buried his head in Pete’s shoulder, laughing. “I’ll give you points for your musicality,” he conceded. Because despite dancing in a totally inappropriate way for the music, somehow the tempo Pete set matched the song.

"I used to be in a band, once upon a time," Pete mentioned quietly, almost like he didn’t mean to let it slip out. "Maybe you've heard of it? Arma Angelus?"

Patrick wracked his brain until something sparked. "I think Joe used to go to their shows. Is that how you know each other?"

Pete nodded, going quiet as they danced. Pete was currently trying to slow dance with him in total disregard of the upbeat song playing.

"If only I'd come along one of the times he begged me to," Patrick muttered. “I could’ve known you back then.” It should’ve felt like a big thing to admit, and yet, it wasn’t.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Pete said, stilling as the song ended. His hands slid down to grasp Patrick’s. “But I’m glad I didn’t meet you until now. I was…a different person then. I don’t think you would’ve liked me.”

“What do you mean?”

Pete wound their fingers together and looked down at where their hands were clasped. “Let’s just say going from hardcore punk to dorky massage therapist is a long journey.”

Patrick felt like Pete was trying to tell him something, but he wasn’t sure what. “Well, I don’t know how to tell you this…but it’s not your massage therapist persona that I like. And you’re not dorky at all. That’s my territory.”

Pete laughed. “You’re far from a dork, Patrick. And if it’s not my massages you like me for, then what is it?”

Patrick felt his face flush. He couldn’t exactly blurt out that Pete’s eyes made him feel like he’d swallowed sunshine or that he wanted to permanently burn every word Pete spoke into his memory. He was pretty sure that was like, punishable by some sort of stalker law. “I…that’s not a fair question. Can I—”

Pete shook his head, smiling playfully as he pulled Patrick in closer, pressing their bodies together from hip to chest as they swayed to the music. “Pleading the fifth is out of the question.”

Fuck. “Okay, um…I like your sense of humor.”

Pete smiled brightly. “That almost sounded like a question, but I’ll take it because you’re an excellent dancer.”

“You must not have had many dance partners.”

“I’ve had a fair amount, but none of them quite like you,” Pete admitted. 

Something in his tone made Patrick’s heart flutter. He hid his face in Pete’s shoulder. “Do you treat all the guys like this?” Patrick murmured. “Luring them in with dancing to their favorite music?”

“Only the cute ones,” Pete purred in his ear. 

Patrick felt his face grow warm. “You keep calling me cute.”

“I’ll say it as many times as it takes for you to start believing it,” Pete promised, making Patrick’s heart go just the slightest bit gooey. Pete’s fingers traced over the lines of Patrick’s body ever so lightly, slowly bringing his nerve endings to life, like a warmup for what was next. “You ready for the main event?” Pete asked.

God, was he ever… He lifted his head from Pete’s shoulder and aimed his eyes at Pete’s brown ones. “Absolutely.”

“Great, I can just um—” Pete broke off awkwardly, thumbing toward the door. “So, you can get undressed, you know.”

“Oh! Um, you…you don’t have to,” Patrick said, trying not to falter under the weight of Pete’s smoldering gaze on him as his words sank in. “I mean, like go ahead and get everything ready.”

Pete’s eyebrow quirked up. “That wouldn’t offend your delicate sensibilities? Threaten your virtue?”

Patrick shook his head. “My virtue is long gone, I’m afraid. I hope that’s not a dealbreaker.”

Pete’s eyes danced with fire, a dangerous smile on his face that made Patrick’s cock twitch. “No problem at all,” Pete said. “I like my beaus… _worldly_.” He let the last word roll off his tongue seductively.

Were the candles burning hotter, or was it just Patrick? Maybe he should take his clothes off. Like right now. “I wouldn’t call myself worldly,” Patrick admitted, his eyes barely making contact with Pete’s. “But I’ve had my share of experiences. Just don’t, like, watch me the whole time or something.”

“I’ll see if I can tear my eyes away,” Pete promised, waltzing over to retrieve Patrick’s record from the player. The sound cut off abruptly, leaving them alone with the elephant in the room. Patrick had never felt so naked as he folded his shirt and jeans and left them on the chair. When he was clad in just his boxers, Patrick paused. Should he or shouldn’t he? He glanced over his shoulder at Pete, who was making a show of rearranging candles and supplies so Patrick wouldn’t feel rushed, giving him as much space and privacy as he could. The lines of Pete’s shoulders looked tense. He was just as nervous as Patrick.

Patrick slid off his boxers, feeling like a thousand butterflies were trapped in his stomach. He climbed onto the massage table and arranged the towels to cover himself up decently. “Pete?” he said, his voice wavering just the slightest bit. “I’m ready.”

He heard the delicious hitch of Pete’s breath as he laid eyes on Patrick’s body, completely naked, save for the towel draped over his hips. Pete stayed silent. Patrick heard his footsteps as he neared the massage table, the sound of Pete slicking his hands with oil. His heart pounded in anticipation of Pete’s touch on his naked skin, and he realized with a jolt that he wished he could touch Pete in return. He imagined stripping Pete’s clothes off slowly, running his hands over the planes of Pete’s chest. His cock twitched against the table in interest. Fuck, you were not supposed to have feelings for your massage therapist. But considering that his massage therapist was Pete, could anyone really blame him?

And then Pete touched him. The electricity of his hand on Patrick’s body, moving over his skin, heightened Patrick’s nerves. He sank into the table, letting out a contented sigh. Pete hummed calmly somewhere near his shoulder as he warmed Patrick’s muscles up with gentle caresses. _Like a lover_ , Patrick’s mind insisted. Patrick told his mind to shut up. He breathed in and out slowly and steadily, letting his body take the lead.

Pete’s hands stroked over Patrick’s skin languidly, like he had all the time in the world, despite the clock creeping its way past ten. He’d been there an hour already, and Pete showed no signs of stopping. He just continued his methodical work, taking Patrick slowly apart. Pete’s hands moved in a smooth and steady rhythm, working Patrick’s muscles to the pace of whole notes, deep and long and meaningful. His mind wandered away to thoughts of Pete’s stamina in other situations…

Patrick’s cock started pressing into the table. Pete hadn’t acknowledged his total lack of clothing yet, but Patrick had a feeling Pete would get there, that Pete had been waiting for this, for the silence to creep in and peel away at their secrets, one by one until their hearts were as bare as Patrick’s body on the massage table.

When Pete’s hands picked up in their intensity, pressing deeper, harder, Patrick lost his fight with his vocal cords, letting loose a strangled moan loud enough to drown out everything but the feel of Pete's hands, massaging strong and sure into his taut muscles, dragging him down into a helpless dreamy state, like Alice's Wonderland.

He could barely hear the murmur of Pete's voice in his ear. "Falling apart again, huh?" 

Patrick nodded weakly, unable to muster the energy for actual words, worried that speaking would break the spell Pete cast over him. Patrick wished he could stay in this state forever, Pete guiding him along, whispering reassurances in his ear, his warm breath against Patrick's skin making the younger man shiver with desire.

"It's okay, Patrick," Pete said soothingly. "You've had a stressful week. Let me help you forget."

Patrick relaxed more, if that was even possible, his body going limp, giving in to Pete's every touch. As long as Pete's hands stayed in contact with his skin, he would be okay. Every trace of the burning in his muscles and nerves washed away at Pete's command, his oil-slick hands conquering them one by one, like he had a map of Patrick's body with pinpoints to mark every pain or discomfort. Pete targeted them each in turn, his insistent fingers slowly but surely winning each battle, turning Patrick’s insides to molten caramel.

"Yes?" Pete giggled softly. Startled, Patrick realized he'd been chanting Pete's name under his breath. Oh, god, how embarrassing.

Patrick struggled to find his voice. "Just...feels..." he breathed, trailing off because his vocabulary had abandoned him, his thoughts taken over with a never-ending stream of _PetePetePete_ , his mental images consumed with what he imagined they looked like right now—Pete standing over him, eyes devouring the curves of an absolutely boneless Patrick’s pale skin.

When Pete's hands slowly grazed the top of the towel, Patrick wiggled his hips in answer. His heartrate perked up like his blood had been replaced with caffeine. He wanted Pete's hands on as much of his body as possible, spreading his magic touch over his skin until Patrick became the embodiment of Pete's deft, calming caresses.

Pete started slowly peeling the towel away, Patrick's head lolling to the side as he let out a desperate whine. "Can I...touch you here?” Pete asked, his voice unexpectedly soft and uncertain. “You can say no if you're not ready. It's not like I'll never ask again."

"Touch me," Patrick choked out. "Please." He _needed_ Pete's hands like he needed air to breathe. And sure enough, there they were, sliding south over Patrick's spine, dipping down at his lower back, then smoothing over the round flesh below. Pete’s hands were tentative, like he was worried one wrong move would send Patrick running and rob him of this moment, this chance to touch Patrick the way he wanted.

Patrick moaned loudly, not even caring about holding back his noises. Pete was going to hear them all, with or without Patrick's permission. Pete answered with his own labored breath against Patrick's back.

" _Patrick_ ," Pete sighed. His fingers flitted over the soft skin that was very rarely touched by hands other than Patrick's and examined this closely by exactly no one ever. Patrick was completely exposed. 

_Please, Pete, please_ , his mind chanted. His body ached with desire, his cock filling up. He squirmed against the towels, moaning wantonly at the sublime friction he found until Pete was cursing under his breath. Patrick would've let Pete do anything in the world to him at that moment. Finger him? Absolutely. Tie him to the massage table? Sure. Paint his body purple with yellow polka dots? Why the hell not?

Patrick braced himself for Pete's fingers to slide into more intimate places, but instead, they stayed in strictly PG-13 areas. Well, as PG-13 as sensually groping someone's naked ass could be. Pete's determined fingers dug into his flesh, kneading Patrick's glutes until he was a fully hard, whimpering mess. He tried not to wiggle, but his cock was trapped between the fluffy towel beneath him and his own warm body, the pressure building with each slight shift of his hips under Pete's hands.

"How are you feeling?" Pete murmured above him.

"Divine," Patrick settled on. 

He could hear Pete's smile as he answered. "Good. Let me take care of you."

 _Oh, god, this is it_ , Patrick's brain screamed. Pete was going to slide his fingers inside him or turn him over and jerk him off. It wouldn't take more than a few strokes...

He held his breath and instinctively spread his legs, his hips flexing and arching up up up, chasing Pete’s touch.

Pete chuckled lightly, his hands withdrawing. "Patrick, Patrick, Patrick. I think you're missing the point of relaxation. There’s no need to tense up. It's just me, just my hands." 

Patrick tried to release some of his anticipatory tension, but it was a lot harder to do on his own than it was with Pete's help.

Pete, seemingly in tune with the inner workings of Patrick’s body, lightened his touch. "You know, pleasure doesn't have to lead to sex,” Pete murmured in his ear. “It can just be sensuality, feeling relaxed and content at another person's touch. If you want to orgasm, I mean, I can’t stop you. But my only aim is to show you another side of the coin: intimacy, trust. There's so much more I can teach you if you let me."

Patrick thought he couldn’t get any harder without coming, but Pete’s pornographic words were proving him wrong. Could he survive Pete touching him like this without getting off? If this was how Pete touched him with his hands, he could only imagine how skilled Pete was with his lips. His dick might explode from pleasure, but even if it did, he’d still be getting one hell of a reward.

“Please touch me,” Patrick whined. “I’ll try not to come.” His balls screamed in protest at the thought of no release.

“I’m still not sure you get it,” Pete murmured. “Sensuality isn’t about giving sexual satisfaction up. It’s a different kind of pleasure altogether.” His fingertips trailed down Patrick’s spine, tantalizingly close to where Patrick was positively _aching_ to feel him. 

“Show me,” Patrick begged. “Please, Pete.”

“Okay,” Pete assured him. “I will. Just close your eyes, Patrick. Now take a deep breath in…and let it out. Slow…and deep.” Pete’s voice was soft and low, his words caressing Patrick’s skin, seeping through into his body, planting seeds of serenity and gently coaxing them to life. Patrick sensed this… _feeling_ building up inside his chest, welling up like a ball of light. The epicenter was close to his chest—too high for it to be an orgasm, but also too calming for it to be lust. Despite his budding feelings for the man sculpting him into a boneless ball of pleasure, he wasn’t naïve enough to think it was love, so…

“What is this?” Patrick choked out, his voice sounding wrecked. “What I’m feeling?” Pete’s hands slowed as they swirled over the backs of his thighs, squeezing gently as they crested the mounds just above, and then pressing lightly as they climbed his spine. For a moment, Patrick thought Pete hadn’t heard him or just wasn’t going to answer him.

“What do you think it is?” he asked softly.

“I–I don’t know. I’ve never felt anything like it.” 

Instead of answering, Pete did something completely unexpected. His hands slid up into Patrick’s hair, lightly gripping the strands between his fingers as he massaged circles into the redhead’s scalp. The sensation was so blissful Patrick let out a moan, arching his head back. 

Then the bastard went for _the spot_. “Patrick, Patrick. You’re so beautiful,” Pete whispered above him. Something shifted near his head. When he managed to open his bleary eyes, they were met with a wall of tight black denim, stretched suggestively around Pete’s hips. And fuck, Pete’s _dick_ was right there and Pete was pressing into that special spot on Patrick’s neck. He wanted nothing more than to reach his hands up, pull the zipper down, and repay Pete right now, but he was too busy reveling in his own pleasure to move.

Pete’s fingertips ran down the side of his face, tilting Patrick’s head up toward him. Pete looked about in the same state Patrick was in. His amber eyes were intense, full of fire. And Patrick knew not to touch a burning flame, but—oh, god, he just needed to get his hands on this one so badly. “Pete,” he whined desperately.

And Pete said something back, but Patrick couldn’t hear through the sudden roaring in his ears. The sensation, the intimacy, the bedroom stare Pete was trying and failing to hide—it all rolled together into a more intensely pleasurable feeling, like the sun was trapped inside his body. Except it wasn’t the sun, because it was intensifying, glowing brighter and brighter until Patrick wasn’t sure how a feeling so big could be contained by a human body.

And then it _exploded_. Patrick’s mouth opened in what must have been some sort of horrifyingly loud wail, except the ringing in his ears drowned out all sound. His vision went white, the room and Pete fading away, all sensations consumed by a warm, tingly feeling that coursed through his body like rapid fire. Patrick thought for a moment that he must’ve _died_. He must’ve literally died from the pleasure Pete gave him, and now he was in heaven. His thoughts were growing fuzzy and he knew he should feel uncomfortable, but there was an irresistible warm glow around him. He felt _safe_ , like a baby in a cradle being rocked to sleep. 

He didn’t know or care where he was. He only knew he never wanted to leave. He wanted to burrow into this world, where he felt secure and carefree and relaxed. 

But now someone was touching him, moving him gently. “Patrick?”

 _Pete_ , a voice somewhere deep in his mind whispered. Pete—that was right. Pete had put him here. Pete was looking for him. He had to go back.

“Patrick, wake up. I’ve got you.” The voice sounded worried. He couldn’t let Pete worry.

Patrick focused on Pete’s voice, letting it guide him back like a beacon. Patrick’s eyes flicked open slowly to see an attractive blurry face hovering over his own. Patrick was somehow on his back now. Pete must’ve turned him over? He craned his head around half-heartedly, but everything was still out of focus and his face felt—he reached up a hand to brush something off his cheek. Tears? Was he _actually crying_ during his massage? “God, I’m such an idiot,” he whispered.

“Oh, thank god. _Patrick_.” The relief in Pete’s voice and the way Pete said his name…

“Pete. What…what happened to me?”

“Well, you, um…” Pete looked nervous, his fingers clenching and unclenching around the edge of the massage table. “You kind of passed out.”

Patrick blinked. “What?”

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for that to happen. Your blood pressure must’ve gotten really low. I…” Pete trailed off, hanging his head in guilt.

Patrick struggled to sit up. His arm felt like solid lead as he reached out to grasp Pete’s hand in his own. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” Patrick assured him. “That was…it was amazing. I’ve never felt anything like it,” he said in wonder. Then he had to ask. “Um, was I…was I crying?”

Pete looked uncomfortable. “Sometimes intense pleasure can trigger a physical response,” he explained softly. But before Patrick could press him with more questions, Pete was changing the subject. “I should get you something to drink, get your sugar up, you know,” he mumbled.

Pete dug around, pulling a curtain back under one of the tables to reveal a mini fridge. “Is diet okay?”

“Yeah.”

Patrick heard the telltale pop of the can opening and suddenly he craved the cold, fizzling liquid. Pete insisted on holding the can for him while he drank. “Feel a bit better?” he asked, a moderate amount of concern in his eyes.

Patrick nodded and smiled reassuringly. “You know, if this is what you can do to me during a massage, I can only imagine what would happen in bed,” Patrick teased, trying to lighten the mood. 

He’d been expecting Pete to laugh and use his remark as a jumping point for their usual banter. Instead, Pete blushed, and damn if it didn’t make him ten thousand times more attractive. And then, “I’d take care of you,” Pete whispered. He inclined his head toward Patrick’s tentatively until he could feel Pete’s breath against his skin. Amber eyes flicked back and forth, trying to gauge Patrick’s reaction. _Pleasepleaseplease_ , he willed his eyes to say back. 

Patrick closed his eyes and parted his lips, waiting for the kiss…and felt Pete’s lips press gently against his temple, his kiss sweet and slow, like honey. Patrick should have been disappointed, but when Pete rested his chin on Patrick’s forehead, carding his hands through Patrick’s hair, this step felt so much more natural than a kiss. Pete was different from any other guy he’d been with in the most surprising and spectacular ways. This man’s touches _meant something_ and so did his words. Pete’s mere presence could erase his worries and calm the beat of his anxious heart. Patrick had never been around another person who made him feel so whole.

He was struck with the realization that what Pete kept telling him was undeniably true. Sex was great, but there was something out there so much greater, so much more fulfilling, and now that Patrick had a taste of it, of Pete, he knew he couldn’t go back. “I believe you,” Patrick whispered. And he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Hope this massage could even hold a candle to the last one ;)


End file.
